It's A Long Journey Home
by notesofwimsey
Summary: Set after Silent Night ep 3:12. Lindsay's case in Montana is heating up, but the New York team is providing backup: very personal backup. WARNING: Rated M for language, violence, and graphic scenes. DL, StellaFlack
1. Chapter 1: She's Leaving Home

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: I love to hear from readers, and I promise to respond. _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 1: She's Leaving Home

_Something inside that was always denied for so many years. _

_Bye, bye._

Danny sat in the parking lot of the airport staring blankly at the planes soaring into the darkening sky. She'd gone. He had missed the plane, and she was gone, and he was damned if he was going to go running in there and try to catch up with her, like some pathetic schmuck in a bloody chick flick.

She'd left him a note. A goddamn fucking note. What was this – high school? A bloody made-for-TV movie on the W channel? It was as bad as her lame "It's not you" speech a few months ago. What kind of crap was that to pull on him?

And why, why was all his anger not enough to keep him from still caring?

He got it, he really did. Something had happened to her in Montana. From the bits and pieces her friends in New York had put together before she disappeared, it was something bad. You didn't just drop hints to trained investigators. It had taken Stella and him approximately ten minutes to find the news reports of the shooting at her high school nearly 13 years earlier. Four kids dead: all the kids in the science lab except for one 16-year-old Lindsay Monroe.

So many things came together as he read through the stories: her toughness; her determination to match up to expectations; then, over the past few months, her growing uncertainty at scenes. After being blown up twice in one year, after seeing Stella attacked in the one place she should have been safe, after seeing both Mac and Flack injured doing the jobs they were so experienced at, was it any wonder she had started to doubt herself?

But why hadn't she come to him? He'd offered; God knows he'd done everything but lie down in front of her to be walked over. He thought she trusted him; even if they weren't friends – and evidently she disagreed with him on that score – they were partners, for Chrissakes. If you didn't trust your partner, you were finished.

"Well," Danny thought bitterly, "I guess that's what we are. Finished." Before they'd even had a chance to start.

Stella had sent Lindsay home after her break-down in the morgue. "See you in the morning," she'd said, and Lindsay had nodded, given her that trembling smile that was the only one they'd seen for weeks now. But no one had seen Lindsay the next morning, or at all during the day. Calls to her home, to her cell, nothing had reached her.

Finally, just before her worried friends had sent out a search party, Mac had come into the lab and told them tersely that Lindsay was on leave, indefinitely. It was hard to tell whether this had been her decision or his. As usual, Mac gave nothing away; in fact, he had been more close-lipped than normal. Even when Stella followed him into his office, she came out with no additional information, at least none she was willing to share, no matter how much Danny begged.

After humiliating himself, he had slammed into the office he and Lindsay had shared. In the middle of her entirely too clean desk had been the envelope addressed simply to _Messer_ in Lindsay's careful handwriting.

The night before, after Stella had told him about the incident in the morgue, Danny had read every story he could find on the Montana shooting. It was a case of the bullied taking revenge: a fifteen-year-old boy taking out the people he felt had rejected him. In this case, the perp had gone after the Science Club, saying in the suicide note he left in his bedroom that they should have been the ones to let him in. "They had no right to keep me out," the note had ended. The boy had been taken down by police – suicide by cop, kids called it – after walking into the school during final period and shooting up a science lab, casually searching out and fatally shooting every person in the room.

Except one. The shooter had looked right at Lindsay, according to one news report, pointed the rifle at her, and said, "Bang." Then he walked out the door into a barrage of gunfire. As it turned out, though, he hadn't died. He had been paralysed by a bullet which severed his spine. Danny couldn't find any further information on the shooter; he seemed to have disappeared.

"When asked, Monroe could give no explanation for the shooter's bizarre behaviour." The newspaper report had gone on, "Several of the parents asked the same question. 'Why was she spared?' one distraught mother asked. 'My son was all I had, and he is dead. Why is Lindsay Monroe not with him?' When she went on to suggest that Monroe had somehow been involved, friends and family hushed her and refused to allow reporters any further access."

And there was some explanation for why she "couldn't handle mothers." Danny shuddered. It was hard to imagine what damage that whole experience had done to a 16 year old. But she had fought back, hadn't she? Gone on to university, majored in bio-chemistry, joined the Montana State Police right after graduating with all kinds of honours, did her time on the street and in the lab. She was an experienced officer and criminal investigator, and one of the bravest people Danny had ever met.

He'd followed her to the airport when he figured out that she'd be on the evening flight direct to Bozeman, yelling his destination to Stella as he ran out of the building. He didn't know why she had run away. Now, what was he going to do about it?

He put his head down on the steering wheel and took a deep breath. Nothing. That was what he was going to do. Nothing. "How many ways she gotta tell you, Messer? No, thanks. She doesn't want your help, or anything to do with you. Just get on with your job."

He rubbed his eyes fiercely with the sleeve of his coat, lifted his head, and stared once more into the lit windows of the airport. As he had sat there, the sky had gone from dusk to black, and he could now see people through the airport windows like little puppets on a stage. He couldn't help searching for her, just one last sight of her, even though he knew her flight was probably now somewhere over the Great Lakes. For a moment, he thought he saw her, but when he blinked, the person he thought was Lindsay was gone.

He reached into his coat pocket and drew out the letter. He hadn't even read it when he picked it up, just glanced at the first line, then shoved it in a pocket and run for the car. His breath had frozen in his lungs at the sight of the envelope. He didn't even rate a _Danny_ from her; the last words she wrote for him and she called him _Messer_. What more did he need to know?

He took a deep breath and held it as he carefully, painstakingly, opened the envelope. He needed to know more. The perils of being an investigator, he thought with a grimace: _'satiable curtiosity_, like the Elephant's Child. He had to know everything he could, even if the knowledge brought him no peace, even if the knowledge brought him even more pain than he was in now. Leaving things alone was not an option.

Even as a kid, he'd always picked at scabs, sometimes just to see what would happen.

He steeled himself for the moment when he opened the letter, then quickly scanned it, as if reading it as fast as possible would lessen the hit.

_I have to go home and deal with things there. I'm sure by now you and Stella have figured it all out. There's too much to explain. I don't even know where to start._

_Please don't try to get in touch with me. If you ever cared about me at all, leave me alone._

_Lindsay_

Danny read the brief note again, then once more slowly. Nope. It didn't get any better read slow. His hands came together once, twice, three times, and the letter lay in shredded pieces at his feet.

Sort of like his heart.


	2. Chapter 2: Lost the Only Girl

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews – I like to know what works for you and what completely annoys you, so let me know._

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 2: Lost The Only Girl

_I've got every reason on earth to be mad,_

'_Cos I've lost the only girl I've had._

_If I could get my way,_

_I'd get myself locked up today,_

_But I can't, so I'll cry instead._

If it hadn't been a city vehicle, it wouldn't have been so bad. After all, people had minor accidents every day on the freeway going in and out of New York. If it had been his own car, he wouldn't have been tagged as a city employee, and now he wouldn't be sitting here in an emergency room cubicle in the hospital waiting for one of his supervisors to come to have him released and sign for the damaged vehicle.

He refused to stay on the bed. When he faced his doom, he was at the very least going to be wearing his own clothes, no matter how blood-stained, and sitting on a chair, not the bed. The nurse had thrown up her hands in disgust when he growled at her to give him his fucking clothes and leave him alone. She had done just that.

He could only hope that it was Stella who would come. She might cut him a little slack. Mac wouldn't, he knew – well, "couldn't" would be more accurate. Mac had cut him a lot of slack over the past two years; even he had to have reached his limit by now. He'd pulled some crap, Danny admitted, although everything had seemed necessary at the time. Looking back, he thought now that some of it might have been a little ill-advised.

Okay, most of it had been bloody stupid.

Every time, he promised himself he would slow down, think things through before jumping. And every time, he kicked himself for forgetting that promise as he flew through the air after whatever goal he had set this time.

Like with Lindsay. After the diamond smugglers case, he had been so desperate to hold on to her. He should have seen that she wasn't ready, or even interested, maybe, in a relationship with him. Hell, he had seen it. She had given him all the back-off cues, the more subtle ones as well as the giant neon flashing sign of standing him up for a date without even the decency of giving an unbelievable excuse. How stupid was he?

But he'd wanted her. And he was used to getting what he wanted. Maybe a little too used to getting what he wanted. No one, certainly no woman, turned him down for long. In his considerable experience, persistence always paid off. He had worked Lindsay good, stepping back when she asked him to, staying available, not going out with anyone else, and basically just waiting her out.

He'd given up his player ways, and had made sure she knew it. He'd turned down a sure thing with a Suicide Girl.

Adam had been with a Suicide Girl. He'd let Adam get ahead of him in the "Adventurous Relationship" stakes. How much did that hurt at two in the morning?

None of it had mattered, though. She'd beaten him. Just stepped on a plane and left, while kicking his teeth in with a note that read like a third-grade teacher's reprimand to an unruly student.

He closed his eyes against the headache struggling to get past the pain meds. His glasses had been broken in the accident, which left him feeling like he was underwater all the time. He hated that feeling. Weirdly, he felt like he couldn't hear properly when he didn't have his glasses on. Unfortunately, his extra pair had been in his kit, which was still in the back of the upturned vehicle, as far as he knew.

His thoughts returned to which of his supervisors would come to get him out of here. Not Mac, then. He'd wash his hands in disgust, Danny was pretty sure. Stella, though. In a way, she'd be worse. Mac might be pissed off, but Stella would be sorry for him. And damn it all, the last thing he wanted was for people to feel sorry for him. He was fine, wasn't he? Okay, a little concussed, but other than that, the doctor had checked him out and said there was nothing wrong.

He'd been confused by that at the time. The nurses had taken his pulse and his blood pressure. How was that possible? His heart had stopped beating before he got into the car to go to the airport. He couldn't feel it, even now. When he surreptitiously checked his wrist, he still couldn't feel a pulse.

Of course, he'd always been crap at finding his own pulse, but still.

It mattered. Because if he had a pulse, then he should be alive, shouldn't he? Stands to reason. But he didn't feel alive. The hallways were full of shadows; everything had a grey tinge to it, especially the people he now vaguely saw walking towards him, with worry pulsing out of them in waves.

As they got closer, he could see Stella's green eyes shining with concern. Shit. She was sorry for him. He closed his eyes against her. If he couldn't see her, maybe she wouldn't be there any more. He could hear Flack's voice – it was as unmistakable as Stella's eyes. They were the only two things he could distinguish in the fog which surrounded him.

"Okay, Messer?"

Why did the name _Messer _hurt so much? It was his name; he knew that. The doctors and nurses had gone over that about a thousand times: his name, his address, the date, the name of the current president, where he had been, where he had been going to, then back to his name and address again. Over and over as they checked him out for injuries.

Over and over, he'd explained the accident. He was traveling, a little fast he admitted, into the city from the airport when a car had come out of nowhere into his lane, swerving out of control. He had attempted to avoid the car, and in doing so, had hit black ice and flipped the SUV he was driving.

When he came to, the other car was gone and he was hanging upside, tangled up in the seat belt, with blood pouring from a cut on top of his head, and another cut under his eye, probably from his glasses. It had taken the EMTs a while to get to him; by the time they had made it down the embankment he had gone over, he had got himself out of the car and was sitting on the ground beside it, holding his head together.

He had given a description of the car to the first officer on the scene, as well as a partial plate. At least his eyes and parts of his brain had still worked.

Stella was sitting beside him, holding his hand. Danny opened dazed blue eyes and looked at her. She was crying: had been crying, he amended the thought. Her cheeks were tear-stained. Why was she crying?

"Danny? The doctors say you're okay. Are they right?" She was watching him carefully.

"Just a concussion, some stitches," he mumbled, ashamed of upsetting her. Then he touched her cheek, rubbing at a tear track with his thumb. "What's wrong?"

"We get a call that you've been in an accident, rolled an SUV, I'm not supposed to be upset?" Stella shot back, a little shakily.

She handed him his emergency bag, and he gratefully began to dig for his other pair of glasses, but looked up frowning at her response.

"Come on, Stel. If they phoned, they told you I was okay, and no one else was involved." Thank God, Danny thought. His own death he could face, but causing someone else's would have finished him this time. "What's happened?"

Putting on his glasses so he could see properly, he looked at Flack, who had gone white and was looking at the floor, refusing to answer. Danny grabbed Stella's hands and held them hard. "It's Lindsay. What's happened?"

"Her plane. Danny, her plane went down. They're searching for it, but haven't found it yet. It went down in the mountains. We were trying to find you, but then the hospital called…" Stella's voice disappeared completely. When the call from the hospital came through half an hour after the news report had declared the Montana flight lost, the entire office had stopped. She hadn't seen Mac look so blank since the news of the World Trade Centre attack.

Oh, Danny thought dully. He must be alive, because he could hear his heart. Now it was beating so hard he thought Stella and Flack would be deafened by it. It pounded in his ears, in his head, in his hands which still gripped Stella's as the world went completely dark around him.


	3. Chapter 3: Playing it Cool

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks to all reviewers, and all those who are reading the story. _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 3: Playing It Cool

_Don't carry the world upon your shoulders._

_For well you know that it's a fool,_

_Who plays it cool_

_By making his world a little colder._

"Danny. Danny, hold on." Flack's voice was deep and quiet and Danny clung to it like a lifeline bringing him home. He shook his head and the darkness receded. Stella and Flack shared a look of relief when Danny's eyes cleared.

"So what do we do?"

"We take you back to the office if you're okay, home if not," Flack said. "Mac contacted the Montana State Police. He'll be informed as soon as there's anything…" his voice trailed off.

"Office," Danny said firmly.

"Let's go then. Mac may have something by now." Stella sighed as she stood up. It had been a long day, and it wasn't looking any shorter from where she stood.

The trip to the lab was silent. Flack drove; Stella took the front seat without thinking about it, leaving Danny in the back. He stared out the window watching the city lights flash past. Had Montana been sleeping on the plane? Had she been watching out the window, waiting for the lights of home to come into sight? Had she known when the plane started to go down? Had she been afraid?

Danny closed his eyes against the thought of Lindsay afraid. Somehow, her terror was harder to face than her death.

Stella flicked on the radio when they got closer to the city to sign in with Dispatch.

"There's a message for you, Detective Bonasera, from Detective Taylor. The plane has been found and there are some survivors. Repeat: there are some survivors. Copy?"

"Yes. Yes, copy that." Stella spoke a little breathlessly into the radio, and Flack hit the sirens to cut through some of the city traffic. "Survivors, Danny. There were some survivors. Did you hear?"

Danny started to nod, but stopped with a hiss; the damn concussion was doing his head in. He tried to smile back at Stella, but it was a poor effort at best. "Yeah, yeah, Stel. I heard. Keep praying, okay?"

He knew any prayers of his would be no good. They hadn't worked for months now.

They arrived at the lab, and went looking for Mac straight off, finding him in his office. Mac looked up as they walked in, and immediately got up to greet Danny, grabbing his shoulder and giving him a little shake, only stopping when he saw a grimace of pain. "What the hell were you thinking, Danny?"

Danny was going to defend himself, explain it hadn't been his fault, but then he saw the look on Mac's face and shut up. "I'm okay, Mac. Good thing I only hit my head!" His joke, feeble though it was, had the desired affect: the stretched look around Mac's eyes relaxed a tiny bit and Mac even managed a thin smile. "What's the news on Montana?"

"You got the message, Stella? That they found the plane?" When she nodded, Mac frowned and went on, "Well, they're checking the manifest and are beginning to process the scene. Some of the passengers got away from the plane and are triaging injuries. Luckily there were a couple of doctors on the plane. They're still looking for passengers."

Mac glanced at Danny, and put his hand on his shoulder again, squeezing it gently this time. "Danny, they haven't found Lindsay yet. At least, they haven't identified her …" his voice stopped as his throat closed up. He couldn't say the word 'remains'.

Stella swallowed a sob. "Are we sure that she was on that flight, Mac?"

Danny answered, "It was the only direct one to Bozeman this afternoon." He refused to hold on to the hope that he had been right, that it had been Lindsay he had seen in the airport after her flight had already left. He prowled around the room restlessly, nearly running into Sheldon Hawkes, looking strained and anxious, who walked in, saying, "Mac, I just heard. Is there any news?"

Mac shook his head. "The rescue team found the plane about an hour ago. There are survivors, and there were doctors on the plane, so passengers were receiving some help. No names are being released yet. As soon as they are, the Montana sheriff promised to let me know."

"So what do we do?" Shel's frustration was mirrored on every face in the room. They weren't used to inactivity; they were the investigators, not the ones who passively waited for other people to tell them what was going on.

With his back to his friends, Danny took out his cell phone and checked uselessly for messages. He didn't even know if her cell would be in range, but he had to do something. Quickly, he texted a message, "Montana, U OK?" and hit _send._ She had told him not to contact her. He planned to ignore that. He prayed he still had the chance to ignore that.

Evidently he still had a prayer or two in him.

"I don't know about the rest of you, but my shift started half an hour ago, so I have to check in," Flack wearily stood up, grabbing Stella's hand and giving it a comforting squeeze as he did. "Let me know if you need anything, 'kay?" He turned to Mac, "Keep in touch, would ya' Mac?"

Mac nodded wordlessly.

Flack turned to Danny next, "Walk out with me." He ignored Danny's automatic protest, and put one hand on his back, propelling him out of the room.

They walked silently down the hallway until they got to the elevators. There, Flack stopped and turned to Danny, "Look, man, I know this has got to be rough. I know you went to stop her," he raised a hand to keep Danny quiet and continued, "And I know you missed her. I bet you're thinkin' she wouldn't 'a been on that plane if you hadn't. That's got to be killing you."

Danny turned away, and rubbed his hand over his face, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead. "Leave it alone, Flack."

Flack shook his head. "Uh-huh. I'm going to say this, and you are going to hear it, Messer. Lindsay made her own choices. I'm not saying they were good choices, or the right ones, but they were hers. You couldn't have stopped her. Whatever … happens now," Flack's voice had gone husky, "You had nothing to do with it."

Danny turned back, his spurt of anger dying as he saw that Flack was as upset as he was, his blue eyes slicked with tears he wouldn't let fall.

Not as upset as he was. Any tears Danny may have shed had lodged somewhere in the pit of his stomach, and he knew they would sit there like a tumour.

"I should'a had something to do with it. Dammit, she shut me out. All I wanted…" he stopped and took a deep breath. "Wasn't what she wanted," he admitted.

Don reached out and gripped Danny's shoulder, much the way Mac had earlier. "We'll get through it, Danno. You're not alone."

Danny gave a stiff nod and patted Flack's arm awkwardly. "Never am, right?" He tried to say it lightly.


	4. Chapter 4: Lost Time

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks to all reviewers (yay for the alerts finally being up again!): I promise if you review, I respond! Thanks to those who are following the story, too; I hope you are enjoying it._

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

Chapter 4: Lost Time

_We have lost the time that was so hard to find,_

_And I will lose my mind,_

_If you won't see me, you won't see me._

Danny went to his office to try and work on the case Mac had reluctantly assigned him when he refused to go home. Even Mac's fiercest glare had done no more than dent his protective shell this time. Frankly, Danny didn't care what Mac thought about him or his work today. There was no frigging way he was going back to sit in his apartment and wait for someone to let him know what was going on with Lindsay.

Of course, his office was a crappy place to be if he was trying to avoid thinking about Lindsay. Everything about the room reminded him of her: the faint smell of her shampoo and hand cream in the air, the obsessively neat desk, the computer screen saver of a skier flying through the air in the Bridger Range. When he had noticed it the first time, he had asked with a smirk if she was the skier; her blush and nod had shut him up pretty fast.

Attached to her computer was a little Christmas ornament of Tony the Tiger on skis he had found for her first Christmas, a sort of apology for being a smart-ass.

He slouched down in his chair and put his head back, closing his eyes. It was just for a minute, not so much to avoid the work as to avoid seeing Lindsay everywhere he looked. The pain meds were definitely not doing the job; he felt as if he was floating in a river, chained to a concrete block of pain holding him in place. He could feel himself drifting off.

He saw Lindsay in front of him. She was smiling, that Big Sky Country smile that lit up a room, and walking towards him with a spring in her step he hadn't seen in months. He could feel the grin on his face growing as she moved over him and touched her lips to his. He could feel the warmth and sweetness of that kiss even when he woke up awkwardly hunched in his office chair, chilled and shaking.

He stood up and walked out of the office, still trembling a little. It had felt so real that he could swear Lindsay's scent was even stronger on the air than it had been when he had first walked into the office. He poured himself a cup of coffee in the break room and wandered back through the lab, sipping it in mild distaste – whoever had made the last pot hadn't rinsed out the machine first, so it was strong and grainy. Still, it was something to do with his hands, drinking coffee, seeing as he didn't smoke any more.

He was a few feet from the door when he heard his cell phone go off. It was sitting on his desk where he had dropped it. He instinctively started to run when he heard the ring tone, but stopped dead at the door, staring at his phone in shock. It was playing Shania Twain's "That Don't Impress Me Much", and the only person with that ring tone was Lindsay. She had programmed his phone with it as a joke months ago, after he had been particularly annoying (and right) one day. He had never changed it.

Stella heard it too, from down the hall. She had stolen Danny's phone in the first place to help Lindsay set him up, so she knew as well as he did who that was. She crashed into Danny still standing at the door, "Danny! Answer the phone. Dammit, that could only be Lindsay, couldn't it?"

She pushed past him and grabbed the phone just as it went dead. Danny was staring at her, so white she was surprised he hadn't passed out. She shoved him into Lindsay's chair, then yelled for Mac as she pushed Redial on Danny's phone. "Mac," she snapped when he came running as well, "Lindsay just called Danny's phone. Let Flack know, and Hawkes. Lindsay? Lindsay? Is that you?"

Stella dropped into Danny's chair in relief as she heard Lindsay's voice. "Where the hell are you? What happened? Are you all right? Jesus Christ, Lindsay Monroe, you scared the living crap out of us." She took a breath, and gave Lindsay a chance to answer at least some of the questions. "Okay, what are you doing now? No, Lindsay, come back here. Yes, get on the plane – we'll come pick you up. In four hours. We'll be there. Lindsay? Don't do this to us again, okay? Okay. We'll see you in four hours at the airport. Four hours, Lindsay. It's okay, honey."

Stella looked up at Mac, her eyes full of tears. "She's in Denver."

"As in Colorado? What the hell is she doing in Denver?" Mac's voice started quiet, but snapped at the end like a whip.

"She wasn't on the direct flight – and hers had a stop over. She got off the plane, and didn't get back on for Montana. She wasn't on the plane that went down. Danny, did you hear? She was never on that plane." Stella spoke slowly to Danny, who was still staring at her as if he couldn't understand anything she said.

"She was sitting in the bar, trying to decide what to do, and saw the report of the plane crash on the TV." Stella took a deep breath. "She was crying." All Lindsay could say at first was Danny's name, but Stella didn't think he could handle knowing that.

Danny closed his eyes, then stood up suddenly, shooting the chair back and walking out of the room, banging into Flack as he did.

Stella stood up and said to Flack, "She's okay. She wasn't on the plane. She's coming back." Now everything hit and Stella began to shake. Without thinking, Flack put an arm around her and eased her back into the chair, before crouching down beside her and rubbing her back a little helplessly while she cried. Mac walked out to the break room and came back with a glass of water.

"Sorry, sorry, guys," Stella was gasping and trying to apologize in the same breath. "I'm okay. It's just the sound of her voice. I wasn't sure it was her at first." She sipped the water until her own voice was under her control again.

"What now?" Flack looked at Mac. "You said she's coming back? Where is she?"

"Denver. It'll take about four hours; Stella said we'd pick her up, but we can't all go. Maybe just Stella and you should go," Mac said a little uncertainly. This wasn't what he was good at – these emotional twists just confused him. He glanced at Stella, hoping she would correct any mistakes he made.

Hawkes hit the door at a run at that moment, "Danny says Lindsay called?" He looked from one person to another, trying to gauge the temper in the room.

Stella stood up, decision made. "Shel, would you take Danny to the airport? Lindsay will be coming back in about four hours. She got off her plane when it stopped over in Denver. I hope I convinced her to get on the plane to come back, but they were calling it when she was on the phone. She might have missed it."

Unspoken was the question of how Danny would handle Lindsay not being on the plane. Stella thought Hawkes was the best person to deal with him; she knew Danny and Shel were friends, and Shel was not as volatile as Flack.

"Where's Danny? Didn't he talk to her?" Flack questioned her.

She shook her head, "He couldn't even answer the phone. He walked out."

"He was in the locker room when he told me Lindsay had called." Hawkes volunteered.

Flack sighed. "I'll see if I can find him."

Turned out finding him wasn't hard. He was sitting on a bench in front of Lindsay's locker, staring blankly into space. He was running a bottle of shampoo back and forth in his hands. Flack sat down beside him and said, "Hey, Danny. What's up?"

"I dreamed about her," Danny said abruptly.

"Huh?"

"Just before she phoned. I fell asleep, and she walked into the room and kissed me. She was smiling. When I woke up, I could still smell her. I could feel her, Flack."

"Okay, so that's weird," Flack said cautiously. He wasn't actually sure what Danny wanted him to say here.

"No, you see, it wasn't weird. It was normal – real. The dream was real. Then the phone rang, and it wasn't real any more. I thought that was the dream. I couldn't answer the phone, Don. What if it had been my only chance to talk to her, and I hadn't answered the fucking phone?" Danny was shaking again.

Don put a hand on his back. "Danny, you've had a rough night. Don't beat yourself up about this, okay? You are going to have lots more chances to screw things up. This one time, give yourself a break. Stella was there, and she took care of it. She talked Lindsay into getting on the next flight from Denver to New York. She'll be here in about four hours. Mac wants you and Hawkes to go. That work for you?"

He patted Danny on the back when the other man nodded. "It's all going to be okay, Danny. You'll work things out."

He just hoped he was right.


	5. Chapter 5: I Must Go

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks so much to all the people who are reading the story and especially to the people who are leaving comments and reviews – I love to hear from you. I am back to work today, so updates will slow down a little._

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

Chapter 5: I Must Go

_And now the time has come so my love I must go,_

_And though I lose a friend in the end you will know, oh_

_One day you'll look and see I've gone,_

_For tomorrow may rain so I'll follow the sun._

"Lindsay Monroe." How many times was she going to hear that replay in her head: his voice, so serious, so unlike the usual teasing tones he used for her. She had frozen solid when she heard him in the hallway, after first standing him up, then not even being able to come up with some halfway decent excuse. She'd done her best to avoid him all that day, avoid that conversation all day, but he had caught her.

She had stood in front of him and deliberately, almost clinically, torn him to pieces, watching the inquisitive light in his eyes turn to confusion, then hurt, then resignation. His voice when she walked away, offering his help if she needed it, still haunted her. She woke up every morning with it echoing in her ears.

Months. It had been months of continuing to avoid him, stay out of the office if he was there, work with other partners when possible, keep things professional and cool between them. He tried to help, and she shot him down. He tried to keep things friendly, and she froze him with deadly professionalism. She was wiped out with the effort.

When Lindsay was in university, she'd had a friend diagnosed with cancer, which metastasized to her lungs. She had three operations in which the cancerous polyps were stapled off, getting rid of the cancer, but also destroying her lungs bit by bit. The last operation, the doctors had closed her up again without finishing the procedure – there wouldn't have been enough lung surface left to keep her alive.

Lindsay felt as if she had done the same thing to her heart. Every time she felt a little softening towards Danny, felt that she could give him back some of the warmth he gave her every day, she had cut that piece out, excised it in fear that it would grow. Now, she was sitting in an airport, waiting for them to call her flight, and she felt as if her heart was two sizes too small – barely big enough to keep the blood circulating around her body.

She had been called home to Bozeman, but even Montana reminded her of Danny. When she had showed up at the airport, wanting to buy a ticket on the direct flight at the last minute, she had said "Montana" with his flattened Staten Island accent, earning a strange look from the ticket agent before being told that flight was already over-booked.

"I could book you on one leaving about an hour later. It has a stop-over in Denver. You'd get to Bozeman about two, well, nearly three hours later than the direct flight." The agent looked sympathetically at the young woman standing in front of her with no luggage and a dead look in her eyes. "Is it for a funeral? We have a bereavement rate."

Lindsay looked at her dully. "Yes. I mean, no. It isn't for a funeral." At least, not a recent one. One – several – which had taken place years before.

"That's okay," the agent leaned forward and smiled, "You look like you could use a break, anyway."

Lindsay's eyes filled with tears, as she murmured "Thank you." But inside she was screaming, "Don't be nice to me! No one should be nice to me – I don't deserve it."

"Don't mention it. Your flight leaves at 5:25; you have a layover in Denver for about 45 minutes, and you'll be in Bozeman before midnight. That do you?" She smiled kindly at the exhausted young woman in front of her. She looked, the agent thought, as if someone had run her through a grinder.

"Of course, and thank you again for all your help." Lindsay was automatically polite; she had had to work at developing a New York attitude. Her eyes filled again as she heard Danny's voice in her head, "Ya don't gotta do that, Montana," when she had taken off her shoes at a suspect's front door. He had laughed at her so often, but usually gently, as if he found her … sweet.

Lindsay perched on one of the uncomfortable chairs in the airport, waiting for her flight to be called. She wasn't sweet. She was smart and competitive and determined. She was as tough a cop as any of the men she worked with, though maybe not as tough yet as Stella. She could take down a runner, process a scene, go dumpster-diving without vomiting.

She stood up and wandered over to the large windows that enclosed the airport, rubbing her hands together restlessly. She rested her hot face against the cold glass, looking out over the Departures drop off point. She watched cars pull up, dislodge their passengers – hug, kiss, cry – then drive off.

She had come to New York to prove herself, and dammit, she had done it.

For a while at least.

Her flight was called; she wandered to the very end of the line, too tired to fight her way through people. She showed her ID at the desk and then went down the long skyway in a daze. The flight attendant told her where her seat was, but Lindsay just stared at her uncomprehendingly. Taking pity on her, the attendant walked her down the aisle and installed her in a middle seat between a nervous university student with a runaway tongue, and a large businessman who, before the plane had left the runway, was asleep and snoring, taking up much more than his fair share of space.

Lindsay zoned out, ignoring the girl beside her, and trying to avoid the businessman' breath (he had evidently swallowed a few relaxers in the bar before getting on the plane). She tried to sleep, but succeeded only in dreaming; terrible, crime scene-like photos flashed in front of her eyes briefly, then a face, then nothing. She would startle awake, then drift off again, only to have the whole sequence replay before her weary eyes.

Finally, the attendant came with food and made Lindsay eat. She tried a few bites of rubber chicken and sips of coffee, but her stomach revolted. Deeply embarrassed, she filled an airsick bag before getting out from under the businessman and spent most of the next two hours in the air standing near or in the bathroom, emptying her stomach over and over.

Now all the attendants had her on their radar, checking on her every time they passed, bringing her ginger ale and water, which she would promptly vomit up again. By the time they had to put back in her seat for landing, she was dizzy and barely able to speak.

"Honey," said the attendant who had helped in the beginning, "You are going to have to stay in Denver when we land, okay? You can't risk going on with whatever this is until you've been checked out. Just stay seated when we disembark; I'll have an agent meet you at the exit."

Lindsay nodded her head, not really knowing or caring what the woman was talking about, but recognizing kindness in her voice.

The businessman beside her leaned over and said in a carrying and angry voice, "Is there another seat I can have? I really don't appreciate being seated with a sick passenger."

The attendant frowned and said, "She'll be fine, sir, and it will only be a few minutes until we land." She walked off with a twitch to her rear-end; had she been a cat, her tail would have been whipping back and forth furiously.

Lindsay would have laughed at the image if she could drum up enough energy. Instead, she closed her eyes and fell deeply asleep as the plane landed in Denver, Colorado.


	6. Chapter 6: You Were Only Waiting

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks to the reviewers and the readers - I love to hear your favourite lines and the things which make you laugh or cry._

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

Chapter 6: You Were Only Waiting

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night_

_Take these sunken eyes and learn to see._

_All your life_

_You were only waiting for this moment to arise._

She was taken gently off the plane, bundled into a wheelchair, and handed over to a First Aid attendant, who checked her out, diagnosing exhaustion and malnutrition.

"You need to go home – be somewhere they'll take care of you, feed you up a bit," he said as he wound up the blood pressure cuff.

Lindsay stared at him blankly, hearing Danny's voice, "Mac don't want us to starve." Ever since she'd met him, he was always trying to feed her. Maybe it was an Italian thing.

"There's no one to do that," she said quietly, "Not in Montana."

That wasn't true. In fact, it was the exact opposite of true; her mother would take care of her. She would take care of her forever. If Lindsay showed up sick, she might just as well give up her job, her lease on her apartment, everything she had built in New York. A pair of blue eyes filled her mind, but she blinked them away.

"What about New York? That's where you were coming from, isn't it? Anyone there who could look after you a few days?" The attendant was being professionally kind – Lindsay recognized the tone of voice. She'd used it herself with relatives and victims: "Is there anyone we can call for you? Anyone you can stay with?"

She started to shake her head, but an overwhelming wave of homesickness washed over her. She wanted to go home, and, it turned out, home was New York.

"I'll think about it," she mumbled to the attendant, who nodded casually and handed her an envelope with five sleeping pills in it. "You need to sleep and eat. Take care of yourself a little." He grinned down at her. "You look like you're worth it."

She smiled back, but the automatic response didn't reach her eyes. She took the envelope, thanked him, and threw it in the nearest garbage can when she walked into the concourse.

Her phone vibrated against her hip. She had turned it back on as she had left the plane, as automatic a gesture as hitching her knapsack over one shoulder, or pushing her hair behind her ears. Dully, she unclipped it from her belt and looked at the text message which came through:

_Montana, U OK?_

Danny. One thing you could say for Danny Messer, he was persistent. Either he hadn't got her letter, or he had refused to read it, or he was just choosing to ignore it. Anger burned through her foggy brain. Dammit. Dammit! Why couldn't he, just ONCE, respect her requests?

She welcomed and held on to the feeling of anger for a moment, though. It was the most feeling she'd had for hours, since she had run from a scene, chipped off at her supervisor, and freaked out in the morgue. Great day at the office. If she'd been a rank rookie, there would have been some way back into Stella and Mac's good graces, but this. There was no acceptable excuse for this.

Stella had sort of forgiven her, true. But that was before she failed to show up at work. And Mac? No way would he want someone so ineffective on his team. He had given her nothing when she phoned to ask for an indefinite leave: asked no questions, probed no further than to tell her to report when she arrived in Montana, and to let him know when she was coming back. The conversation hadn't taken ten minutes; that was all it took to wipe her out of the lab, evidently.

She swallowed hard, trying to forget the note she left on her desk for Danny. She couldn't. She had written him dozens of letters, one ten pages long, in which she tried to explain everything that had happened, every move she had made for the past thirteen years. They had been uniformly terrible: selfish, whinging little pieces of self-justification that made her flush hot when she thought of them. She had torn them to pieces before she burned them and then flushed the ashes down the toilet. There had to be some advantages to being a CSI – no one would re-construct those damning documents.

Without a plan, she wandered into the sports bar near the First Aid office, and ordered hot tea. Some game was on the large-screen TVs in every corner of the bar, and she stared mindlessly, willing herself into oblivion.

Suddenly, the picture changed, showing a serious looking newscaster. The slug under her said, "Plane down in Rockies – 150 feared lost."

"Hey, Jason, turn up the volume, would you?" a server said.

"To recap: a plane leaving New York City and headed to Bozeman, Montana, has been lost in the Rocky Mountains in the north of the state. Reports say that radio contact was lost about half an hour before the flight was scheduled to land. Montana State Police are searching for the airplane, and have a tentative location. Some reports are been filed saying that the plane has in fact been found, and that there are some survivors; however, this has not yet been confirmed by officials in Montana. For now, we'll return you to the game, and will bring updates as we receive more information."

Lindsay sat in the bar, as conversation bloomed around her: twenty, thirty, more voices exclaiming, wondering, questioning, mourning. She was frozen in place. That was the plane she had planned to be on. She had got to the airport in time to board, but the plane had been sold out. She should have been on that plane.

Danny. Her heart clutched as she thought back to his text message. He hadn't been ignoring her note; he had been trying to find her. He thought – he must think – she was on that plane too.

She didn't even think, just grabbed her phone and hit speed dial #3. The text message had been sent well over an hour ago. Danny, all her friends in the lab, had been thinking she was dead – lost, at least – for that long, maybe longer depending on when the first reports of the missing plane had come in.

No one answered. It rang four, five times, and she hung up before it went to voice mail. She was outside the bar now, crying so hard she couldn't have left a coherent message. She could barely keep herself standing, leaning against the wall to keep on her feet.

Over the intercom, she heard the first call for the next flight to New York. Without even realizing what she was doing, she began to move towards the gate called. She had no ticket, and no real hope of getting on the plane, but she had to try.

A few steps later, her phone rang in her hand. She nearly dropped it – Danny had got her back for her prank with his phone by programming "New York, New York" as his ringtone. She stopped and answered the phone, still crying, saying his name.

It took her a minute to realize that it was Stella on the phone, Stella who was talking over her sobs, yelling at her, asking where she was.

"Stella, I'm in Denver. My flight had a lay over, and I got off the plane." Lindsay didn't bother to explain she had been taken off the flight in a wheelchair; it was too embarrassing. "I'm sorry I worried you. Yes, I'm in Denver." She shook her head in frustration. "I don't know where to go. I was going to Bozeman, but I doubt those flights will be running now."

She listened another minute. "Yeah, a flight has just been called for New York. I could try to book on that one. It would be at least four hours before I get to New York."

She was moving now as she spoke, "Are you sure, Stella? No, I'll be there, or I'll call if something goes wrong. Stella, I'm sorry. Tell … everyone … that I'm sorry."

She took Stella's "It's okay, honey," as absolution, but was afraid there was one person who would not be as quick to offer forgiveness.

By the time she got to the desk at the gate, she was focused again. She pulled out her badge as well as her ID and bullied her way into a ticket on the plane, using her NYPD status shamelessly when her sweetest, most patient smile failed. Luckily, there had been an empty seat on the plane, and Lindsay was rushed through boarding. Her credit card was groaning, but she would worry about that later. Now, she needed to get back to New York.

She sat on the plane, willing it to go faster. Again, she was in a middle seat, this time between a young man traveling to New York on his first ever trip alone and was listening and humming along to excruciatingly loud Broadway tunes on his iPod, and an older man who had immediately pulled out his computer and started working. Lindsay stared at the in-flight movie blindly, counting the minutes to landing. She didn't eat.

This time, when the plane landed, she was on her feet and squirming her way to the front of the plane before the docking mechanism had been engaged. She stood impatiently at the door, waiting for the all clear, and took off down the skyway the minute everything was secure. She glanced around to figure out which way to go to get to the Arrivals lounge. This was the New York airport, and she had a long way to walk yet. She moved with determination, in what she thought of as her "New York attitude" walk.

Finally, she cleared the last security doors like a bullet from a gun, then stopped dead. She saw Sheldon Hawkes out of the corner of her eye, but it was Danny who filled her vision, Danny whose arms opened when he saw her, Danny whose heart she felt pounding when she flung herself at him.

Home, it appeared, wasn't New York. Home was Danny Messer.


	7. Chapter 7: I Remember

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks to all the reviewers and readers. I know some of you thought the last chapter was a happy ending; unfortunately, it wasn't. I hope you'll go on reading anyway!_

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

Chapter 7: I Remember

_Some are dead and some are living_

_In my life I've loved them all_

Sheldon Hawkes turned his back on Danny and Lindsay, trying to give them some privacy.

However, the building was walled with windows; in the repeated reflections he saw Danny's arms go round Lindsay tightly, her head buried against him. They stood perfectly still for a few minutes; then Lindsay took a deep breath and looked up into Danny's face, and he wordlessly dropped his arms and took a deliberate step back from her.

"Mac asked us to bring you back to the lab. Okay?" His voice was cool; all the heat was in his eyes. She could hardly look at him; when she risked a glance, all she could see was anger.

"I need to explain things. The lab is fine." Lindsay reached out to Sheldon and put her hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, Shel."

He turned to her quickly, "Don't be, Lindsay. As long as you are safe, that's all that matters." She walked beside him, leaving Danny to bring up the rear. Sheldon glanced at her and could see the signs of her ill-fated trip to Denver. "Did you get checked out? Do you need to see a doctor?"

She smiled at him, a shadow of her sweet grin coming through. "Just you. I had a bout of airsickness, maybe food poisoning. There's nothing left to come up. The First Aid Attendant gave me sleeping pills, but I dumped them. I just need to go home, Sheldon."

"Where's that, Lindsay?" Sheldon asked her quietly.

"I'll let you know when I figure it out," she said under her breath.

Sheldon and Danny sat in the front seat, leaving Lindsay in the back with a blanket Danny had found somewhere in the lab and brought with them. No one talked on the drive from the airport to the NYPD lab building. Lindsay wanted to ask why Danny's head was bandaged, but she wasn't sure she had any right to know. There had to be some good reason Danny wasn't driving; Shel was, perhaps surprisingly, a speed demon, and very few people had the guts to drive with him twice.

Lindsay closed her eyes in the back seat; it was easier than jumping every time a car came whistling towards them. That would be ironic; survive a plane crash by missing the plane, but die on the freeway into the city.

It didn't take much for her to fall asleep.

When the car stopped in front of the NYPD building, she opened her eyes, a little confused. Sheldon opened the door and held out a hand; Danny was already out of the car and up the stairs, moving fast on his feet the way he did when he could barely contain himself.

Lindsay had to lean up against the car a moment to regain her balance. Eight hours on a plane and two hours of vomiting had played hell with her system. She stared up the stairs with a hopeless feeling in the pit of her stomach. "He's mad at me," she said childishly.

Sheldon sighed. "I guess. Do you blame him?"

"I don't want him to be," she said slowly. "I didn't mean for this to happen, any of it."

"He's had a tough day. Give him a little time." Sheldon sighed again. How often were these two going to knock into each other? Someone was going to break eventually, and no one was taking bets on which one it would be. "Come on, there are people waiting to see you."

Lindsay held it together until she saw Stella's red eyes and Mac's worried ones. She sat down in the nearest chair and buried her face in her hands. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," she stammered. "I didn't mean to upset anyone."

Mac crouched beside her chair. "Well, we can hardly blame you for the plane going down, and you did let me know that you were going back to Montana, so don't feel too badly." He pulled her hands into his, and looked at her carefully. "I do think you need to tell us what's going on, though."

Lindsay looked around the room: Sheldon was sitting beside her, lending his silent support, Flack was leaning up against the wall behind Stella's chair, Mac was sitting on the edge of his desk. Danny, she knew, was behind her, standing in the doorway, ready, she thought bitterly, to make a quick getaway.

Her voice was uninflected as she outlined the incident which had changed her world. She described the ordinary day that shifted suddenly to unimaginable horror, the surreal moment of having the gun which had killed her friends pointed in her face, the expected shot which did not come, the almost gleeful demeanour of a boy she had seen around, but did not know. She remained quiet and unemotional until she described the mob scene outside the courtroom at the arraignment hearing.

"There were cameras and microphones. They kept asking how I felt – the reporters, I mean. My father was on one side of me, the District Attorney on the other. They were trying to move me through the crowd, but there were so many people. That's when I heard her – Mrs. Sorensen, Mark's mother – she was yelling, saying, "Why didn't you die too? What makes you so special?" She just kept yelling and crying, and the reporters moved away from me and – it was like watching scavengers on a dead body. They were all over her."

Lindsay had to stop; she could no longer control the shaking. Hawkes put one arm around her, rubbing her back soothingly.

"What brought all this back, Lindsay? It's been – what? Nearly thirteen years?" Mac couldn't let this go; she had told him very little when she had phoned earlier that day.

"I've been called back to Bozeman to testify at a hearing. The boy," she took a deep breath, "Justin Forbes is claiming that he was not the only shooter. In fact, he says that he didn't shoot anyone; that an accomplice who he hasn't named shot the four other students, and that he only pointed a gun at me."

Flack snorted, "Nice try thirteen years later. Why now?"

Lindsay closed her eyes for a minute, "He was shot several times by police when he exited the building. One shot severed his spine, leaving him paralyzed. He claims that the trauma also affected his memory of the whole event, and that his memory has only now started to come back. His lawyer is challenging the plea agreement on the basis of his recovered memory, and a piece of new evidence."

"And that new evidence…?" Stella asked.

"There were shell casings from two different guns," Lindsay admitted.

"Did you see someone else?" Flack's tone had automatically shifted to interrogation mode. Danny shot him a warning glare from the doorway, which Flack ignored.

Lindsay's brow furrowed in an honest attempt to answer fully. "I've thought about this every night for thirteen years. You know those cases on the corner of your desk, Mac?"

He nodded at her reference to the pile of cases which haunted him; the ones he returned to whenever he could, reading through them again to see if anything new stood out. Every so often, something did, and he was able to put another nightmare to rest.

"This has been my case on the corner. When I first came to the office in Bozeman, I requested copies of the entire file. I re-wrote my own statement unofficially, adding anything I could think of from the things I had learned in university, or through my training. I update the file monthly; at least, I did before I came to New York." She took a deep breath.

"One reason I came here was because I had to get away from Bozeman. No one could forget, or let me forget. Mrs. Sorensen, Mark's mother, never forgave me for surviving; every time she saw me, she would follow me, muttering. She never did anything, never said anything I could hear, but it was … creepy." Lindsay shrugged, embarrassed by her response to a mother's grief.

Stella's shudder reassured her that her own feelings had not been unreasonable.

"I was becoming dangerously obsessed, according to my partner. He said I had to get away or it was going to drag me under. I came here, and it worked for a while. And then things … started to remind me. The day of the Vodka case? With the ice?" The team nodded, except Danny who looked at his feet.

"I received a call that afternoon from the District Attorney, telling me the case was being re-opened and I was going to have to go home and testify again."

Her voice dropped again, until everyone had to strain to hear her. "I hadn't looked at the file in nearly three months. I read through it again that night, every word."

She looked up at each member of her team, all the friends she had in New York. The only one she needed to tell, the one whose eyes she most needed to see, was standing behind her, out of sight. She sighed and spoke to the others.

"I think he might be right. Given what I now know about trajectories and lines of fire, there could have been another shooter. And I have no idea who it could be."


	8. Chapter 8: The Long and Winding Road

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_WARNING: Please take the rating seriously – this chapter is graphic and may be disturbing._

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

Chapter 8: The Long and Winding Road

_The long and winding road that leads to your door,_

_Will never disappear, I've seen that road before_

_It always leads me here, leads me to your door._

Somehow, there was no discussion about it. Mac told Lindsay to go home, and Hawkes tossed Danny a set of car keys. No one else even considered volunteering, thought both Stella and Sheldon looked worried as the younger couple left Mac's office.

So Lindsay followed Danny down to the parking garage, feeling like a child in disgrace. He did not speak to her, silently opening the front door of the car they had driven back from the airport, and pulling the blanket she had left in the back seat earlier over her.

She closed her eyes against his brooding presence and pretended to sleep. Her apartment was in Manhattan, and he drove there through busy streets still without speaking. It was eerie; Lindsay had rarely been alone with Danny when he wasn't talking a blue streak. On the other hand, they had hardly been alone since their "conversation" in the hall the day after she had been informed she would be returning to Montana to face her worst nightmare once again.

She hadn't meant to push him away then. Well, that wasn't exactly true. She had meant to push him away, just not to hurt him. She hadn't really thought she had the power to hurt him.

She wondered with trepidation how angry Danny Messer would have to be to not even be able to open his mouth. She had seen him angry before, but not like this and never with her. When they got to her apartment building some 40 minutes later, she said tentatively, "Thanks for driving me, Danny. I can take it from here."

He still said nothing, just shook his head in disgust, parked the car, and came around to open her door. She sighed and walked into her building, greeting the doorman with a small smile.

"Miss Monroe, I thought you were going to be away?" he said with an answering smile as he pushed the book towards her to sign in.

"Small change of plans, Rafael. I'll be leaving probably tomorrow or the next day." Lindsay felt Danny stiffen behind her. "I'll let you know for sure, and give you my return date as soon as I know it."

She had her keys in her hand, and turned to Danny in front of the elevator. "I'm fine, Danny. You really don't have to come up..."

"Shut the fuck up, Monroe." It was the growl that did for her; she was suddenly, startlingly afraid. For months, she'd trusted this person every day on the job, but there was an undercurrent here she just couldn't read. For the first time she felt that she really didn't know Danny Messer at all: that some of the rumours the lab rats loved to share about his dark past may have more than just romanticism and thrill-seeking behind them.

He stood slightly behind her in the elevator, as if she were under police escort, hands jammed in his pockets, rolling back on his heels, then bouncing a little on his toes, the way she had seen him move countless times before he went after some suspect or annoying lawyer. It was his fighting stance, and she couldn't help but anticipate with dread the conversation she was sure he was building up to.

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't think of anything neutral to say. Talking had never been a problem between them before, at least not until she had first stood him up and then shot him down.

The headache that had traveled halfway across the country with her returned like a hammer blow, and she swayed a little as the elevator came to a stop on her floor. Danny slipped a hand under her elbow, and pulled her a little closer to him as they moved down the hallway to her apartment. She slid her key into the lock and stepped over the threshold, turning to thank him and send him home.

She never got her chance to speak. As soon as they were in her front hall, Danny's hands were tangled in her hair, and his mouth was searching hers hungrily, relentlessly. Slamming the door shut with one foot, he pushed her up against the wall and simply held her there while he took what he had wanted for so long. Shocked, she struggled against him, but he trapped one hand behind her, the other above her head, and continued to ravage her mouth.

She could taste the anger in him like stale smoke on her tongue. She fought him violently for another moment, struggling to get free from his weight, but the feel of his body against her, the desperation in his kiss, was too much for her. With a sob, she relaxed against him, opening her mouth under his searching tongue, and simply gave him back all the longing she had struggled to hide from him and put behind her.

As soon as he felt her surrender, the flavour of his kiss changed to something sweet and intoxicating, burning through her veins like alcohol. The bruising lips softened and gentled; the hard grip on her wrists loosened, and what he had started by taking, he now offered freely. She couldn't think, could hardly breath, could feel only the heat they generated between them. She struggled then to get even closer to him, to feel more of him against her. She was filled with a screaming urge to possess and be possessed that she had never felt before.

He lifted her easily in his arms, carrying her down the hall to the bedroom, lit only by the streetlamps shining in the windows. Clothes were pulled or simply torn off; two naked bodies tumbled onto the bed. Without any preliminaries, Danny slid into her pulsing heat and began to thrust powerfully deep, bringing her to a fever pitch within a few strokes.

It had been months since Lindsay had been with anyone; she had stopped counting how many months long ago. The roughness and speed should have been frightening and painful; instead, it was fiercely, agonizingly erotic, and she came apart, screaming his name only minutes, it seemed, after he penetrated her. Her pulsating muscles rippled around him, bringing him to his own climax as she continued to gasp under him.

She lay under his collapsed weight, stunned. Danny was breathing as if he had just finished the one minute mile, whispering in her ear, "Fuck, fuck, fuck," as he tried to regain some semblance of control. As soon as he could get his limbs under his own power again, he rolled off her, and lay staring up at the ceiling, tongue-tied.

Lindsay rolled over onto her side, trying to steady her own breathing. She lay perfectly still until she felt him relax beside her, and could hear his breath steady, then slow. She assumed he had fallen asleep; wasn't that what men were famous for? Her eyes filled; one tear rolled down her cheek, to be followed by a flood. One hand fisted in the pillow under her head as she tried to weep as quietly as she could. She couldn't face Danny knowing.

He was as far from asleep as it was possible to be, though. He had been staggered by the intensity, by his savagery, by her response. He was about to reach out to her when he felt the bed shake under her. Instantly, he sat up, pulling her into his arms.

"Oh God, Lindsay, I'm sorry. That should never have happened. Did I hurt you? Are you all right? Come on, baby, don't cry. I'm sorry, so sorry. Lindsay. Lindsay, talk to me." His voice was shaking; his apology abject.

She turned her face into the curve of his neck, sobbing as if her heart were breaking. He petted and soothed and finally gave up talking, just holding her on his lap, pulling blankets over her and rocking back and forth with her in his arms.


	9. Chapter 9: We Can Work It Out

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_WARNING: The action may not be as violent, but the language is. If it makes you uncomfortable, don't read it._

_A/N: Thanks to all reviewers and readers. I appreciate all comments and reactions to the story; if something works or doesn't work for you, please let me know!_

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

Chapter 9: We Can Work It Out

_Try to see it my way,_

_Do I have to keep talking till I can't go on?_

_While you see it your way,_

_Run the risk of knowing that our love may soon be gone._

_We can work it out_.

Danny wrapped his arms tighter around Lindsay, whose sobs were shaking her body. His mind was churning furiously as he tried to work out what to do next.

"Well, you've fucked it up completely now," said that smug hateful voice that spoke so loudly in souldark times. "Nice going, Messer. Never mind; at least you got off. Might as well pack this in now; she always knew you'd do this to her. First you fuck her, so you can fuck her up, then you'll fuck her over."

"Shut up," Danny answered his inner voice with fury.

"Why do you think she didn't want to be with you in the first place? She must have known about two hours after she arrived in New York what a shit you are. So you kept it in your pants for a year and a half. Nice coming out party. Way to show her your moves, though. Check out those bruises! Boom! Manage to draw any blood?"

Danny looked with self-loathing at her slender wrists. Sure enough, her pale skin was banded with darkening marks where his hands had held her, first against the wall, then in the bed. He dropped his head against her shoulder in defeat. She could never forgive him for this. He had forced her, all but raped her. His head rang with echoes of a conversation they had had about phone sex, about how rape was a crime of control and power, not sex. Was that what he had done: controlled her? Over-powered her?

His hand was running through her hair, as he resumed murmuring softly to her, letting her cry it all out, hoping that she would fall asleep when she was finished. Effortlessly defying the vicious voice in his head, he was gentle with her, saying her name over and over, trying to bring her back to herself. He couldn't let this end here.

She took one more shuddering breath finally, then lay in his arms, wrung out. He had no idea how long they had been in her apartment, or what time it was now. He had to make this right, but was at a loss about what to do.

She raised her face to his. Her eyes were still full of tears, her mouth red and heavy with fatigue and weeping. Hating himself, but not able to stop, Danny covered her mouth with his, kissing her gently, almost reverently.

She lay under his mouth quiescent, not reacting, but not rejecting him. He didn't push for anything, simply exploring the texture of her lips with his, stopping after a moment to rest his forehead against hers.

"Lindsay, I can't tell you I'm sorry. It shouldn't have happened, not like that. But I can't be sorry I'm here with you." Danny flushed; that harsh voice in his head was crowing loudly as he continued to dig his own grave. He struggled to find words that would make everything come right, but he had been struck dumb. All he wanted to do was kiss her senseless, bury himself in her again until they both fell off the earth.

Tentatively, she raised one hand to his uninjured cheek, caressing it softly before lifting her mouth to him again. This time, she took the lead, deepening the kiss quickly, opening to him invitingly. He pulled away slightly, "Lindsay?"

She took his glasses off and tossed them on the bedside table, "Shut up, Messer, and love me."

"I do," he said on a groan as she curled against him. He pushed her back down on the bed and began to explore her body with his hands and mouth, tasting her, branding her with his mark, his heat. He moved slowly, determined to keep the storm at bay as long as possible this time. She stirred voluptuously under his hands, responding to every touch with a plea, a shiver, a moan. He kissed the bruises he had left on her earlier, whispering self-recriminating apologies until she pulled his face back to hers and kissed him hard, biting his lower lip, then suckling it to assuage the sting.

"Shut up," she said again, and rolled him under her. He let her take charge, delighting in the glee in her eyes as she sought control, discovering him the way he had explored her. She moved over him, taking him into her deeply, then moving slowly, torturing him as long as she could stand it until she had taken her pleasure, throwing back her head and whispering his name again as she convulsed around him. He stroked her silken skin from her hips up to her shoulders as she fell against his chest, panting, then he kissed her deeply as he sat up and took her over. The words _ti amo, il mio amore_ whispered over her skin.

As deep night slipped into dawn, Danny slipped from her one last time. Through the night, over and over, his every touch had been an act of contrition, his every utterance an act of supplication. Every time he had said her name, it had been a declaration of love and commitment. He could only hope that he had expiated his original sin of taking without asking, forcing her on her own doorstep.

But Lindsay, wrapped in his arms, held so tightly against him that his sleeping breath forced her lungs to move in time with his, looked at the marks on her wrists with a wicked light in her eyes, and slowly ran the tip of her finger over each mark, understanding for the first time the power a woman could have over a strong man.

She, Lindsay Monroe from Montana, country girl _ordinaire_, had made Danny Messer of Staten Island, quintessential city boy, lose control. She knew, given the chance, she could do it again.

When the sun shone high in the window, a few hours later, she was alone in her bed, but she could hear movement in the kitchen. Blessed God, she could even smell coffee. He hadn't left, although she had half expected him to, and she owed him, she knew, the same courtesy. She showered quickly, and dressed slowly, making sure her shirt had long sleeves and a high neck to mask the marks he had left on her. She packed a bag before going to face him.

He stood, hair damp from the shower, with a cup of coffee in his hand, looking through the window facing a small park full of trees. It was Lindsay's favourite view, and given the peace on his face, it seemed he agreed. She hated to break into that contentment, but there was no choice. She stepped into the room and grabbed a mug from the cupboard, filling it from the coffeemaker as she moved up behind him.

"I called the airport. There's a plane leaving for Bozeman in just over two and a half hours. If we leave soon, you may be able to make it," he said huskily.

She didn't show her surprise, just said, "I'm packed. Ready to go when you are. I'll call a cab."

Danny turned and stared at her, examining her face for regret or, worse, anger. He seemed to be marginally satisfied, as he looked away again. "Finish your coffee, and eat something. I still have the SUV; I'll drop you off before I take it back to the garage."

Lindsay reached out one hand and touched his cheek, still covered by a gauze strip, then the other wound on his head. "What happened?"

He shrugged, "Flipped a car yesterday. Nothing serious."

Lindsay nodded, knowing she wouldn't get any more from Danny. Stella would spill if she pushed. "I'm sorry." She shook her head, frustrated by the inadequacy of that statement. She wasn't even sure what she was apologizing for.

He walked over to the sink and rinsed out his coffee mug, placing it upside down in the drying rack with careful precision. He reached for her, carefully taking her hands and pushing up first one, then the other sleeve she had carefully pulled down to the backs of her hands. His eyes went bleak as he saw the bruising in the harsh light of day, and he gently kissed the inside of each wrist before dropping her hands and walking back to the window, standing with his back to her.

"I'm pretty sure that's supposed to be my line, Montana."

"There's nothing to apologize for." The statement whipped out fiercer than she had intended, sounding too forceful in the quiet kitchen. Helplessly, she watched him tense up, shoving his hands in his pockets. "We better go."

She walked out to the front hall to grab a coat from the cupboard, and stopped as a visceral wave of memory hit her, shortening her breath and melting her insides. A little lightheaded, she wondered if she would ever be able to walk into her apartment again without feeling the punch of lust she was undergoing now. Surely, she thought, it had to subside sometime.

Then Danny stepped up behind her, and she was deeply afraid that her reaction to him would never lessen. He took her hand once she had her coat on, and did not let go even while he drove the car. They did not talk. There was nothing to say.

They arrived at the Departures gate for domestic flights and Danny came around to her door to help her out. She swung around in the seat, but did not jump down.

"Danny, say goodbye here." She saw the stricken look in his eyes, and felt her own eyes fill with tears. "I'm not good with this. I can't keep doing it. Please. Let me go here."

He stood back without a word, turning to grab her bag out of the back seat and hand it to her. He stayed an arm's length away.

She jumped down from the front seat and deliberately stepped into his arms, hugging him as tightly as she could, waiting until she felt the hard sigh ripple through him, and felt his arms go around her too. She lifted her face for a kiss, smoothing the bandage on his cheek with one gentle hand.

"Be careful, okay?" She waited until he nodded, then kissed him again quickly and stepped away toward the airport's revolving doors.

"Montana," his voice stopped her. "If you need me, one call is all it takes."

"I know. I'll call." She walked through the door without another look back.


	10. Chapter 10: With a Little Help

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, comments, questions and favourite lines readers have been sending. I appreciate the way you all keep me on track! _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

Chapter 10: With a Little Help

_What do I do when my love is away?_

_(Does it worry you to be alone?)_

_How do I feel by the end of the day?_

_(Are you sad because you're on your own?)_

_No, I get by with a little help from my friends_

Danny waited until the plane should have left, sitting in the SUV, staring at the planes as they left for places far and wide, as they landed in the greatest city in the world. He sat until he was shivering with cold, but he could not make himself put the key in the ignition and drive away. As soon as he did that, the last connection to Lindsay would be gone, and he just wasn't ready for that yet.

"Full circle." He berated himself with the hint of bitterness that seemed to be the underlying flavour in his thoughts about Lindsay Monroe recently. Whether it was her fault or his fault no longer mattered. Fact was they seemed determined to tear each other apart.

He closed his eyes to try and ease the headache pounding through his temples before facing the traffic back into the city. Light as he had made his injuries sound to Lindsay, he was not eager to repeat the accident that had scrambled his brains. He had lost most of his memory of the day before, although he could still see the way the world looked hanging upside down.

He could also feel with exquisite precision the way his body had gone cold, first when he knew she had left, then when he thought she had left him for eternity.

Unbidden, flashes of the night before filled his mind: the taste of her skin on his tongue, the sound of her climaxing around him, the feel of her breath on his throat. She might be the most emotionally draining woman he had ever been involved with, but she was also the most challenging woman he had ever been with. He wasn't ready to walk away.

There was a knock on the window of his car, and he rolled down the window to look into the dark, apologetic face of a parking lot attendant. "I'm very sorry, sir," the man said civilly enough, "But I'll have to ask you to move your vehicle. That is, if you are all right, sir?"

Danny nodded brusquely and turned over the engine, put the car in gear, and pulled out of the parking lot. He had to get the car back to the PD lot; it wasn't even signed out to him, but to Hawkes, so any further accidents could have far reaching consequences.

He made it to the city without incident, signed the vehicle back in by forging Hawkes' scrawling indecipherable doctor's signature, and made his way to the lab. Technically, he was still off the clock until the departmental doctor okayed him for duty, but he was pretty sure Mac would ignore his unofficial presence.

The first person he saw in the lab was Stella, who took one look at his face and wrapped her arms around him. "She's gone?"

Danny nodded, "Yeah. She has to testify two days from now." He'd seen the letter stuck on her fridge with a happy face magnet, and had phoned the airport immediately.

"You two okay?" Stella couldn't help but ask; she'd been worrying about them for months now.

Danny shook his head in defeat. "I don't know. Maybe. If she comes back." He couldn't bring himself to tell Stella what had happened the night before. Coming from him, with his past, it would sound like bragging. He didn't feel puffed up with player pride; he'd be happy to be able to take in a full breath, though. "I'm going to catch up on some paper work, okay? See ya'round." He hugged her back briefly and broke away, wandering down the hall to his office.

He got to the door, but couldn't face going through it, so he detoured down to the lab to beg for something, anything, to do. Adam took pity on him and found him some trace evidence to run through the computer, and Flack found him still there hours later, staring blankly at a computer screen.

"Danny. Hey, Danny, let's go," Flack said, gently enough for him.

"Naw, s'okay," Danny mumbled, his voice slurred. "I'm waiting on results here."

Flack glanced at the screen flashing "Match Not Found", and coaxed Danny off his stool and onto his feet. "Let's go find something to eat, okay? Then I'll give you a lift home." Once again, he propelled an unresisting Danny down the hall to the locker room, where he grabbed his coat, wondering if he was going to have to put it on for him. Danny automatically took it and shrugged it on, though, continuing out the door behind Flack.

They went down the block to the pub frequented mostly by off-duty and retired cops, walking into the familiar fug of cigarette smoke, beer, and male bodies wearing woolen suits cleaned too seldom and sweated through too often. They went towards the back of the bank of booths, and sat down in the one they most often shared.

The waitress, a pert 19 year old with a wandering eye and talented tongue, who worked behind the bar on Saturday nights for tips and behind the restaurant in the alley every night for a couple of C-notes, wriggled up to them with two pints of draft on tap, snapping her gum as she leaned over the table and gave Flack a good eyeful of the bounty she had on offer. "Eating tonight, gentlemen, or just the beer?"

Flack looked over at Danny and diagnosed a definite need for food. "Burgers and fries, Candy, the usual." He watched her sashay off to place the order and shook his head at her parents. Basically, Flack thought, if you were going to name a girl Candy, you might just as well set her up as a hooker from the get go. It seemed to mess with their heads. You never seemed to hear of a doctor called Candy.

Flack had taken the seat facing the door so he could flag Hawkes when he came in. Hawkes had texted him, asking him to come get Danny out of the lab, and promising to meet them as soon as he could. He still had some projects to finish up, but he had seen Danny still working, and was determined to get him back on his feet.

Sheldon Hawkes was a quiet person, but everyone on Mac Taylor's team had learned to trust him. He was good folk, as Flack's ma would say: honest, smart, and committed to his friends. If he had suffered any doubt at some point that his loyalty was not reciprocated by the rest of the team, those concerns had been put to rest by the unwavering support and dedication they had shown during the Shane Casey case, when he had been set up by a serial killer looking for revenge over a brother's death. Danny was not the only one who had risked his job to prove Hawkes innocent: Mac had himself come close to being reprimanded for some of the stunts he had pulled during the investigation.

Flack was counting on Hawkes having some clue of what to do with Danny now that they had succeeded in getting him out of the lab. Flack could chase down a fleeing suspect, intimidate a witness, and screw a confession out of a nun, but the thought of trying to dig into Danny's heart and soul and figure out what was going on inside him was enough to turn Don Flack Jr.'s blood to icy water. His usual choice would be alcohol and lots of it, but Hawkes had pointed out the flaw in that otherwise stellar plan.

"Alcohol and concussion, Flack. A very bad combination."

Maybe Sheldon would have the key to getting Danny to open up.

Flack heaved a sigh of relief when he caught sight of the doctor moving through the restaurant. He was frowning a little as he joined them, sitting on the same side of the booth as Flack, and carefully did not look at Danny until Candy came up to get his order.

"Easy on the beer, eh, Danny? Alcohol won't do your head any good," he said as Candy dropped a pint of draft in front of him and he cleansed the taste of the lab out of his throat and mind.

They talked about the latest cases for a few moments, with Danny contributing mostly grunts as he stared at his now forbidden beer.

"Hear from Lindsay?" Hawkes finally said, as casually as he could.

Danny flipped open his phone, scrolled through a few screens and shoved it across the table. The text message said simply, "Safe. Montana."

Flack shared a look with Hawkes. "Seems a little … cold. Not much like Lindsay."

Danny shrugged and muttered into his beer, "Probably more than I deserve."

Hawkes drank again and pushed his empty glass away. "Look, Danny, do you want to talk about what happened? Yesterday, last night, this morning, whatever?"

Flack glared at him, "Way to be subtle, genius. I could'a done that!"

Danny looked at the two men, two of his best friends, who were giving up their evening to help him through a tough time, and wondered vaguely why he didn't feel more grateful.

"Look, there's nothing to talk about. You called it, Flack. I screwed up. Big surprise, right? Everyone will be shocked. I'm sure the office pool is still running; feel free to let Stella and her little black book know. Danny Messer fucked everything up as of one a.m. today. Hope you got in on the pool, Flack – you could collect a nice piece of change."

He pushed his plate away in disgust, then looked up at his friends' carefully blank faces. He couldn't think of a way to begin to describe what had happened between Lindsay and him. He couldn't bear the thought of the way their faces would change if he tried to explain.

"Hey, guys, I'm sorry. I'm not fit company tonight. I'm going to go home and try to sleep this off." He peeled a bill off and tossed it on the table. He held up one hand as Flack started to get up. "It's okay. I can get home. I'm fine. Sorry, Doc. I don't want to take this out on anyone else."

Without a backwards look, Danny walked out of the restaurant and disappeared down the street.

"Think they slept together?" Flack mused, grabbing Danny's untouched burger and biting into it.

"I suspect he hasn't slept at all," Hawkes answered as he moved to the other side of the booth. "If you mean did he have sex with her, there are only two things which screw a man up that badly: NOT having sex with a certain someone …"

Flack grunted, "And HAVING sex with a certain someone."

"Pass me his fries."


	11. Chapter 11: Chains of Love

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks to everyone who has left a review or read and enjoyed the story. Let me know what you like, hate, or want more of! _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

Chapter 11: Chains of Love

_Please believe me when I tell you,_

_Your lips are sweet._

_I'd like to kiss them,_

_But I can't break away from all of these_

_Chains, my baby's got me locked up in chains._

Danny felt like a shit, which was only fair, seeing as he had acted like one. Flack and Hawkes were just trying to help, and he knew it. He would have done the same for either of them in the same circumstance.

Except that neither of them had ever been in the same circumstance. Flack had girlfriends galore, usually several at the same time, and was very careful to keep them all casual and sort of interconnected. He would introduce them to each other at bars and clubs. He always said no one girl could bust your balls if she knew she was just one of a crowd, and a full one at that. So far, Don had managed to keep both his balls and his heart intact, in spite of all the work of scheming, matchmaking mamas in his neighbourhood, including his own.

If Danny suspected that Don's feelings were becoming invested in a certain co-worker, he had long ago decided to play three monkeys on that one: see, hear, speak nothing.

And Hawkes. He was the gentlest and most self-contained person Danny had ever met. Danny couldn't think of another way to describe him. He would never treat a woman the way Danny had treated Lindsay the night before. He would tear himself open before abusing someone like that. Danny couldn't imagine talking Hawkes through a broken heart; it was like deliberately envisioning a tortured puppy.

Danny dug his hands deeper in his pockets and walked a little faster down the dark street. Although he seemed to be completely absorbed in his own thoughts, he wore the city like a cloak slung over his shoulders, always aware of who and what was moving around him.

Let's face it, he was experienced. Street kid, handball player, gang-banger, beat cop: in his time he had been all of those people and more, sometimes several people at a time. When he was a kid, the street had been his playground. He had been one of the bad guys before he put on the shiny badge and the white hat. There wasn't a corner of the city he hadn't been in; not a scent or taste he hadn't sought out.

Not a woman who offered or could be coaxed that he hadn't taken, and enjoyed, and left satisfied too.

And Lindsay? She was smart, and determined, and a match for him in many ways. What she wasn't was experienced. Every time he had touched her last night, that fact had been shoved down his throat. She hadn't been a virgin, thank God – that really would have put him outside of any hope of forgiveness – but she hadn't had sex with many different men either. A few maybe, before last night. Her responses, her surprise, once her utter, heart-stopped shock, had told him that.

"And did you stop? Did you even slow down? Did you teach her, help her? No way; you just banged her good and got what you wanted. No wonder she didn't know where to look this morning." That hateful voice was back in his head, taunting him.

"I made sure she felt good too. I didn't hurt her." The defense was feeble, even to Danny's ears.

"Naw, you didn't hurt her, just bruised her up a little. You took a kid who had only paddled in streams and tossed her into the goddamned Atlantic Ocean. But you didn't actually hold her head underwater, did you? You let her come up for air when you were finished."

Danny tried to hold on to the feeling of Lindsay convulsing around him, whispering his name, not once or twice but several times during the night. But all he could hear was her desperate sobs as he held her in his arms.

Innocence. She'd tasted of innocence. She wouldn't any more.

"Ah, that's what she gets for getting involved with a punk. No matter how far you think you've come, Messer, you're still a mook from Staten Island. Maybe she wanted a bit of rough trade: a little walk on the wild side before she goes home to the country and marries some milky-mouthed farm boy."

He turned in to the first bar he saw, determined, in spite of Hawkes' earlier advice to go easy on the alcohol, to drown the voice in his head. He ordered a whiskey with a beer chaser and downed the shot, sipping the beer to clear the taste. He hadn't been sitting on the stool for more than ten minutes before a woman who had been sitting on the other side of the room slipped onto the stool beside him, wriggling a little to show off a well-toned rear clad in skin-tight jeans.

As she moved into her practiced lines, and he knocked back the conversational ball and his beer with equal ease, he experienced an odd sensation. He could hear his own voice, see his own hands wrapped around the beer glass, feel the stool beneath his ass and her hand on his thigh, moving up fast, it had to be noted.

At the same time, he could see himself sitting on the barstool, flirting with the artistically painted, chemically enhanced blonde, drinking his beer with a kind of grim determination, acting the "player" role to perfection. And he heard a voice in his head, but not the usual voice, not the cruel, bitter voice that made him squirm and curl up as if around a fist to his gut.

This voice said, "You are more than this."

That's all it said, but it said it so loud, Danny turned his head over his shoulder to see who had spoken. For a moment, he thought Flack or Hawkes or, God and all his little angels forbid, Mac, had followed him after all. He looked around a little wildly, but there was no one in the bar he recognized, no one looking at him, no one near enough to have spoken to him without everyone else in the room looking at him too.

He heard it again, "You are more than this."

He slid off the stool, dislodging the blonde's hand, which she ran up his thigh to connect with the hard on she was sure he would be sporting by now. Her face showed only minimal disappointment at his lack of interest, though; she was confident in her own powers. He stepped back deliberately, peeled off another couple of bills and tossed them on the bar, signaling the bartender that he was paying for his drink and his companion's.

"Where are we going in such a hurry?" she purred into his ear.

"Have one on me, then I wish you luck for another one on someone else," he said bluntly. "I'm leaving, alone."

She flushed a little angrily, "You wasted my time tonight, buddy. Are you sure what you're going home to is worth it?"

Danny laughed in honest amusement, "What I'm going home to? I guess you could say it's the only worthwhile thing I have left in my life."

He started to walk back to the lab.

He was only a few blocks away when his cell began to ring.


	12. Chapter 12: You Can’t Go Home Again

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Well, I'm not sure this chapter will answer any questions, but it's time to hear Lindsay's side of things! As always, R&R and let me know what you think. _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 12: You Can't Go Home Again

_There are places I'll remember_

_All my life though some have changed_

_Some forever not for better_

_Some have gone and some remain_

Lindsay sat on the plane, eyes closed, listening to music through her headphones – something vaguely classical – the musical equivalent of a wine cooler, a touch of alcohol wrapped up in soothing syrup. She wasn't really paying attention; it was just a way to keep the friendly bear of a man sitting beside her from talking to her and expecting her to answer.

It accomplished half the goal, anyway. He didn't leave conversational space enough for her to answer him.

Behind her closed eyes, the night before played on a continuous loop: the moment Danny had wrapped his hands around her face, running his fingers into her hair, the sound of her back hitting the wall, the exhilarating rush of heat pooling in the pit of her stomach when he had overwhelmed her and held her effortlessly in place.

She gnawed at her lower lip. Was there something wrong with her for finding that so exciting? She could remember every other moment of their love-making in embarrassingly exact detail, but for some reason it was that one moment which she kept returning to with reddened cheeks and hurried breath. Maybe she was a masochist at heart – needing to be hurt or forced in order to find pleasure?

A smile curved her lips even as a small part of her mind continued to worry at the question of exactly how perverse she was. Pleasure was certainly something she had found in Danny Messer's arms. Muscles she had not even known she had were sore and achy today, but she would not have traded one moment of her education at his hands for anything that could be devised by mortal man. She had not known it was possible to feel that good that many times in one night.

She might have had sex before, but it had been a bit troubling to discover she had never had a lover before last night. She'd slept with one man in New York a few times: a nice man, who seemed safe and easy to be with. Sex was pleasant if unadventurous with him. Of course, when she found out he was married with three kids and another on the way, she knew why he didn't need any extra excitement.

No matter how committed she had felt at the time to the two men she had slept with in college, they had never come close to making her feel what Danny did with just one look. She swore he could make her come just by saying her name.

Especially in that ragged hoarse voice as he came, a whisper in her ear filled with yearning.

She turned up the music, uncomfortable with where her thoughts were taking her. This was Danny Messer she was mooning over: founding member of the "Girlfriend of the Week" Club. She may have made him come apart – more than once – but that might have more to do with him first flipping a car on his own head, then thinking she was dead, than with any special qualities she had.

No. She wasn't going to make this mistake. Danny was a friend, had been for a while perhaps her best friend. She'd screwed this up so many ways already; she was not going to mistake sex, even incredible, melt-the-flesh-off-your-bones-and-leave-you-in-a-puddle sex, for anything else.

Even if he had said he loved her.

Twice.

Once in Italian.

She nearly came again just thinking of it.

"Yes, please," she answered the flight attendant. "I'd like a glass of ice water. Excuse me? Could you fill it up again?"

The direct flight to Bozeman took about four hours, and Lindsay finally fell asleep three hours into the flight.

When she came off the plane, her father was waiting for her. She had texted her parents the arrival time once she had been sure that she was on the flight, but had expected to see her mother. He must have taken time off work to meet her. Tears filled her eyes when she saw him.

"Hey, Dad. How ya' doin'?" She deliberately mimicked a New York accent – no, Danny's accent – to make him laugh, ignoring the pull at her heart when she did it.

He caught her in a hug which nearly broke her ribs, but felt so good she simply relaxed and stood for a moment in the safest place she had ever known: her father's arms.

"Hey, girl-o-mine. Flight okay?" He looked down at her with worry in his eyes; his little girl looked strained and ill and as if she needed to go home and sleep for a year. "Where are your bags? Oh, like what New York's done to your voice, by the way."

Lindsay grinned up at him. Whatever else happened this week, it would be good to see her dad and mom, sleep in the bed she'd slept in since she was two in the bedroom she had re-decorated when she was fifteen and refused to have changed, eat at her mother's dining table which had been handed down through three generations. Maybe the First Aid attendant last night had been right: she needed to be looked after, just for a few days.

Home is where you go to be looked after, isn't it? Home isn't where you lose your balance, or go up in flames again and again.

"I'd like to take you straight home, Lindsay, but Sheriff Olafsen asked me to bring you to the station as soon as I could. They need to go over your testimony and …" Ted Monroe concentrated on the road in front of him. He didn't want to do this again.

"That's okay, Dad. I need to see Bob anyway, and I want to talk to John McKim as well." John had been her first street partner when she joined up; he was the one who told her to get out of Dodge and go to New York, or anywhere, before the Forbes case ate her alive.

Ted reached out and grabbed her hand. "I wish you could just come home and rest, doll. You look like you haven't been sleeping. Are you okay? Your mom will want to know."

"I'll phone her. It's been tough, you know?" Lindsay sighed, and squeezed her dad's hand, although she looked out of the window away from him. "I've been really off at work, worrying about this. I messed up on a case. I yelled at my supervisor. I … hurt my friends. I think … I think I've screwed things up there, Dad." She blinked back the sudden tears.

"Honey, there's no way they're going to blame you for anything you've done once they know why. They all sound like good people. You may need to mend some fences, but hey! You're an expert at that after all those summers on Grandpa's ranch." His teasing coaxed a smile out of her, he was glad to see, although it wasn't her usual sunny grin and it didn't last long.

"Not all fences can be mended, Dad. I learned that on the ranch too," she said quietly.

He lifted her hand and kissed it. If he had his way, the guy who had put that look in his daughter's eyes was a dead man. If he had seen the bruises, that guy would have been rendered and sold off as dog food.

Lindsay wouldn't let him come into the station with her. "Go back to work, Dad. I know you're busy. Tax season is coming up."

"Hey, what's the point in being self-employed if you can't ditch work for something more important? Come by the office when you're finished and I'll take you home." He put the truck in gear and started to pull away, then braked and yelled out the window, "And phone your mother!"

She nodded and waved, and pulled out her cellphone as she climbed up the once familiar stairs to the Bozeman Police Department. She hit speed dial and waited for the phone to be answered.


	13. Chapter 13: Help Me

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Some good guesses about the phone call, but sorry – it's not going to be so easy, unless, of course, you want the story to end quickly! Let me know – keep going, or wrap it up? _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's a Long Journey Home**

Chapter 13: Help Me

_Help me if you can, I'm feeling down _

_And I do appreciate you being round. _

_Help me get my feet back on the ground, _

_Won't you please, please help me, help me, help me, oh._

"Hey, Mom. I'm just going into the Sheriff's office to talk to Bob Olafsen. Yeah, my plane landed safely. Yeah, it was a terrible thing to happen. I heard that most people were okay. Yes, I'll ask Bob about the accident." Lindsay listened for a moment longer, then broke into her mother's monologue. "Look, Mom, I see John McKim; I need to talk to him. I'll see you in a few hours, okay? Yeah, I'll call Dad. Yes, I know he's waiting for me at the office. Gotta go, Mom. We'll talk tonight." Lindsay closed her phone on her mother's voice, feeling guilty, and turned to give the man walking up to her the once-over.

"Well, well, Officer McKim. That uniform still looks pretty good on you." Her smile was wide and genuine.

"Not as good as it looks off me, sugarpie." The tall, blonde man stood back and stared at her, checking her out blatantly. "You're not looking too bad yourself, for a girl that's ditched us for the big bad city."

Lindsay gave him a hug, and was surprised and a little flattered when he seemed reluctant to let her go. She had been a few years behind him through high school; then Lindsay had been partnered with him after she finished her degree for her requisite officer training before she was promoted to Detective.

He was a good cop, who knew the streets and the people on them. Bozeman wasn't like New York: perversions and casual cruelties existed everywhere people congregated, but not in the sheer staggering numbers Lindsay had been exposed to over the past two years. She was constantly shocked not by what people would do to each other, but that they would do it so many times in a day. John had taught her to look at the details; she found herself often using his hands-on approach when she was examined evidence.

"So how are things going with you? You holding up?" John slung an arm over her shoulder and led her into the station.

"I'll be okay. This news kind of threw me, I have to admit. I just wasn't prepared for this right now. I mean, I thought I had put all this behind me long ago."

John gave her a little squeeze and said grimly, "Don't worry, babe. This time, we'll bury him."

Meetings with the sheriff, with the lead detectives, with the District Attorney and with the Crime Scene Investigators took up most of the rest of the day. Lindsay was wrung out by the time she called her father, who had gone home hours before.

Ted was shocked all over again by how pale and strained she looked, but comforted himself with the thought that she was home now, and that her mother could take care of her. Diane had spent all day cooking and baking, as if she could fix the world just by feeding it enough. Ted grinned; he could see a few extra pounds in his future.

When Ted drove down the long driveway and pulled up in front of the large old farmhouse, Lindsay climbed out of the truck. She nearly lost her balance, holding on tight to the door as the world spun around her. No food, no sleep, way too much intense emotion, all crashed down on her when she heard her mother's voice. She closed her eyes and let go.

"Okay, now this is really ridiculous." The voice broke through the darkness and left Lindsay feeling like a six-year-old again. Funny how a mother can do that.

She opened her eyes to see her mother's face hovering over her. She was lying on the couch in the living room: the one she had spent countless hours on during her childhood, the one where she had sweated out fevers and tried not to scratch chicken pox, the one where she had agonized over crushes and whether to go all the way before prom or not. Every lump in the cushions, every ink-stain on the fabric was as familiar as her mother's brown eyes and slight frown as she looked at her youngest daughter.

"Lindsay Monroe, what have you been doing to yourself? Obviously, you haven't been eating or looking after yourself at all. I knew this would happen. You're too old to need your mother to tell you how to take basic precautions."

Diane's words may have been harsh, but her voice was low and soothing, and her hands were gentle as she brushed Lindsay's hair off her pale face and pulled the quilt up higher, tucking it in around her.

"Hi Mom," Lindsay squeezed out through a throat suddenly too tight to do much more than breathe. Without warning, she bean to cry, deep wrenching sobs that wracked her body until she thought she would simply shake apart.

Diane said nothing, just holding her daughter and rubbing her back until the sobs died down and Lindsay could speak. Diane stopped her before she could say a word, however.

"Now, you are going to eat and then sleep. We will talk in the morning." Diane placed a bowl of soup on the lap tray which had also filled a big space in Lindsay's childhood and watched her spoon up thick, homemade turkey soup. Once Lindsay had cleaned the bowl, Diane removed the tray and pulled her up off the couch. "Bed," she said firmly.

Obediently, Lindsay turned to climb the stairs and go to her room, only to be stopped for a moment when her mother added, "I'm glad you're here, honey."

"Here," Lindsay noticed. Not "home."

For the first time in weeks, Lindsay slept through the night without dreaming.

When she finally woke up in the morning, the sun was full up and she could smell fresh baked bread and strong brewed coffee. She knew her parents would have been up for hours by now: Ted may be an accountant but he still ran his father's ranch, and Diane was a lab technician at the local hospital in addition to being a rancher's wife, a full-time and engrossing job in itself. Like most families in agriculture, the Monroes were do-it-yourself, jack-of-all-trades workaholics. The only time they had planned a family holiday, it had been cancelled by a devastating hailstorm which threatened their hay crop and nearly wiped them out for the year. Ted had never tempted fate again.

Lindsay got out of bed and had a shower. Even the water was different in Montana: hard and full of minerals, so her shampoo lathered up into a mass of bubbles. As she washed it away down the drain, she felt some of the tension and fear of the past few weeks go with it. She dressed in ranch clothes, jeans and a sweatshirt, and went down to the kitchen to sneak a piece of warm bread.

"That'll make your stomach hurt – you should wait for it to cool." Her mother spoke from behind the newspaper, repeating the words Lindsay had heard a million times first from her grandmother, then the woman who presently ran the kitchen, the family, and, if truth were told, much of the town.

Lindsay laughed, "You always say that, and it's never true." She swallowed that first glorious bite slathered with fresh butter, and then sipped her coffee. She sat down at the table and smiled at her mother.

Diane took in details about her daughter in one quick glance that another person would not have seen in a thousand years. Lindsay's eyes were still shadowed, though Diane had checked on her several times during the night and knew she had slept. She was thin, her hair was lank, and her colour was not good, a little muddy as if she had not seen enough sunlight.

"So, tell me what's happened. I know the news about Forbes changing his plea came as a shock, but there must be more going on to cause your reaction."

"Whoa, Mom, don't ease into anything, okay?" Lindsay couldn't help but laugh; her mother had never been known for her slow buildup. Sometimes when Lindsay was in the interview room, she would deliberately invoke her mother's attitude: it never failed to shock the interviewee to be suddenly bitten by the petite, sweet-looking detective. She had surprised her colleagues with it a time or two as well.

While she tried to think of how much to tell her mother, Lindsay unconsciously pushed up the sleeves of her sweatshirt and rubbed her wrists. They didn't hurt exactly, but she could feel the bruises; heat seemed to pool where Danny's hands had held her.

Diane looked down at Lindsay's hands and her eyes widened in shock. She grabbed Lindsay's arm and checked the bruising, then got up and found the tube of arnica cream which had been put on every nick and bump Lindsay and her brothers had managed to acquire during an active and sometimes foolhardy childhood. She massaged the cream in gently, noticing the finger and thumbprints standing out clearly on Lindsay's pale skin. Someone had held her girl, and held her hard.

Mortified, Lindsay couldn't speak. She could tell Diane believed she now understood what had happened: that Lindsay had been attacked or forced in some way, and that that accounted for her break down.

How could she tell her that it had not been like that, not after the first moment of shock? She wanted Danny so much: she couldn't breathe sometimes when they were in close proximity to each other. She would have let him do anything – did let him do anything – without complaint as long as he touched her.

She looked at her mother, who was blinking back tears, and knew she had to try and explain it. "Mom, I'm good. It's not what it looks like. He didn't hurt me, not really."

"Who was it?" Diane's voice was dangerously quiet: the one her oldest son Jamie called her rattlesnake voice.

"When you hear the warning rattle, jump back – she's going to strike!" For weeks the boys had come up behind their mother and made rattling sounds to drive her crazy.

"Mom, it wasn't just him; it was me too. Geez, Mom, I'm not sure I can talk about this with you." Lindsay flushed deep red: what would her farmwife mother know of passion so overwhelming it caused a person – two people –to act in such an uncharacteristic way?

Diane looked up at her daughter then with a laugh in her eyes, some of the tension dissipating. "Honey, you don't think four children were left in this house by the stork, do you? I doubt there's anything you can tell me I don't have at least a passing familiarity with, in books at least, if not in person!"

Lindsay took a sip of her coffee, and tried to figure out where to begin.


	14. Chapter 14: Nowhere, Man

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks as always to people who leave a review; I really like to know what struck readers about each chapter. Thanks to all the people who are just reading the story, too; I hope you continue to enjoy it!_

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 14: Nowhere, Man

_He's a real Nowhere Man_

_Sitting in his nowhere land_

_Making all his nowhere plans _

_For nobody_

Danny flipped open his phone and checked the Caller ID before answering the call. "Yeah, Mac?"

"Danny, are you at home?'

"Naw, just coming back to the lab. We got a case?" Danny rubbed his eyes and looked around to see exactly where he was. "I can be there in ten minutes."

"Okay, meet me at my office, would you?" Mac hung up his phone and looked at Stella. "You were right. He's on his way back here. Again. What the hell am I going to do with him?" His voice was tight with frustration.

Stella was slouched down in the chair, her eyes closed and feet up on a table. "I don't know, Mac. Don and Shel tried to talk to him, and he wouldn't say a word. Don told me he didn't even eat. The world must be coming to an end when Danny Messer can't eat."

Mac grinned a little at Stella's wry tone, but he hated this, he really did. Contrary to popular belief, he was okay with personal relationships in the office. Well, not totally comfortable, obviously – heat rose in his cheeks thinking back to how he had rejected Peyton's gesture of sympathy in the office – but he was trying, at least.

If Danny and Lindsay had feelings for each other, he was fine with that. But he needed a functioning lab. It looked like Lindsay would be needed in Montana for some time; he had had a message from the Sheriff in Bozeman, asking for her to be released on secondment until they had finished re-processing the evidence from the Forbes case, and naturally, he had given his permission. Now Danny seemed poised to go off the rails again, and Mac wasn't sure how to pull him back.

"Can you talk to him, Stel?" Mac was aware that there was a touch too much pleading in his voice.

Stella didn't answer for a moment, and Mac was able to hope that she was considering it.

Finally she sighed, opened her eyes, and said, "I'm going home."

"So, is that a no?"

"Mac, I know you don't want to do this. I won't insult you by pointing out it's your job, because I know you aren't just avoiding it on a whim. I would talk to him if I thought he'd tell me anything, but I can promise you he won't. Don says something happened last night: Danny told them he'd fucked everything up at 1:00 am today. They only left here a little after midnight. That doesn't sound like something a man talks to a woman about, now does it?"

She looked at Mac in compassion as he slowly shook his head. "He needs a friend that he can trust not to judge him, to help him work out what happened. If you listen, which you can be awfully good at, Danny will probably figure it out for himself." She stood up and stretched. "It has been a very long couple of days, and I am supposed to be off tomorrow. Call me if you need to talk, okay?"

Mac smiled as she walked off down the hall, making sure she was well out of sight before he pulled a horrible grimace in her direction. She had dumped this in his lap so neatly, with such undeniable logic. He really hated that.

When Danny turned up about five minutes later, Mac waved him into the office. "Close the door, would you, Danny?"

Danny froze with his hand on the door handle, then forced himself to turn around and face his boss. That did not sound good.

"Mac? I thought we had a case." He tried to keep his voice steady.

"Sit down."

Danny did, holding his breath until Mac came around and leaned against his desk. Danny sighed in relief: if he were in real trouble, Mac would have kept the desk between them as a signal of his authority. It was a prop for him: behind the desk, he was the boss; in front he was – a friendlier boss.

"What's up?" Danny looked up at Mac suspiciously. The one person he had thought he wouldn't have to avoid for the next little while, and here was Mac acting like a friend. Damn. Danny had waited outside until he had seen Stella come out the door; she really was the last person he wanted to talk to. He wasn't sure he could ever look her in the eye again.

"The sheriff in Bozeman emailed, requesting that Lindsay be seconded to their office to help investigate the Forbes shooting. It looks like the kid's story has some evidence to back it up. Trial's been postponed."

Danny sat back and shook his head, staring at his hands. "How long?"

"I don't know, Danny. It could be a while. She has to work this case through. Somehow she needs to put it to rest."

"I know." Danny was silent for a minute, eyes still focused down. "How long did you know about …?"

"The shooting?" Mac waited until Danny nodded, hoping he would look up. When a minute passed without Danny moving, Mac cleared his throat. "It was in her application file," he admitted.

"So, when you didn't want her to process the scene at the pharm party…?"

"I was worried that she would have trouble with it, yes."

"She wouldn't let me help. Never. I tried. I kept trying." The whispered admission was heartbroken. "Then I screwed it up, Mac. I pushed too hard. I fucked up everything."

Mac looked with compassion at the wrecked young man in front of him. He'd seen Danny through bad judgment calls on the job, through a careless adolescence coming back to haunt him, through the beating death of his brother. He'd stood by him while his life was threatened by madmen; he'd talked him through the death and near death of two of his best friends. Mac shook his head: a hard enough blow to the heart is nearly always fatal. Who would have thought that little girl from the Midwest would pack such a punch?

"I'm sure it can be fixed, Danny."

"Naw, not this. I took her home last night. I drove her to the airport this morning." Danny shut his eyes against the reality of what had happened between those two simple acts.

Mac closed his eyes briefly too. He could see where this was going. He cleared his throat. "Danny, do you care about Lindsay?"

Danny's eyes shot open and he finally looked up at Mac. He thought about all the things he wanted to say to answer that question, but Mac wasn't a person you spouted poetry at when he asked a direct question. "Yes."

"Have you talked to her since she got to Montana?"

Danny shook his head, shamefaced. "I don't know what to do, what to say."

Mac had to laugh at the idea of him giving relationship advice, though not as much as Peyton, or Claire for that matter, would have laughed had they known. But some lessons had to be passed on from generation to generation, and it looked like Messer Sr. had missed this one, as Mac suspected he had missed others equally vital.

"Danny, women need to hear it. Whatever you are feeling, whatever you want to say, you have to say it. You may think you showed her your feelings…"

"Well, you certainly showed her a little something-something!" interjected that bitter voice in Danny's head,

"… but trust me when I tell you that she needs to hear it. Over and over. If you messed up, she really needs to hear it."

Danny was shaking his head, not in denial, but in pain. "Mac, I raped her."

Mac lost his breath for a minute as he had visions of that playing out in the court of public opinion, not to mention the fallout in the lab. Then reason rushed back into the void left by Danny's agonized admission, and it was his turn to shake his head.

"I doubt that, Danny, I really do. I know you and I don't think it's in you to do that. You need to talk to her, but first, you need to sleep for about three days. We'll fix this. I promise we'll make it right."

Danny couldn't look at Mac; he couldn't believe he had blurted that out, exposing himself, exposing Lindsay. He could feel the darkness he had been fighting for the past few days just overwhelm him, and he let go, suddenly and completely. Mac had said he would take care of it.

Mac looked at the young man asleep on the couch in his office. The pain evident in his face began to smooth out as he went deeper, and Mac pulled out a blanket he kept in the office for nights and days when a quick kip on the couch was all he had time for.

He remembered with a pang Claire taking him shopping for a couch that wouldn't have him limping in pain for days after. She had made him lie down on twelve different ones before he found one he could be comfortable on. They had been chased out of one store, although she had insisted he take off his shoes. It was a golden day, one of many which seemed filled with laughter. It had taken them six months to pay off, and she had gone without a much-needed new winter coat, but she had hugged him and said it was more than worth it.

"Watch over him, Claire. I think he needs an angel right now, the practical type who looks for a couch instead of a silver lining. Help me figure out what to do next."

Mac picked up the phone and dialed a number he knew by heart in more than one way.

"Stella? You said I could call. Yeah, I talked to him. Sorry, I can't speak up; he's sleeping on the couch. I don't want to wake him. I need you to talk to Lindsay. Would you call her?"

Mac listened to Stella for a minute, his eyes never leaving Danny's face. He interrupted. "He says he raped her."

The silence on the other end of the phone lasted long enough for Mac to read through the email message from Montana again. Then he moved the phone away from his ear as Stella's incredulous voice shot through.


	15. Chapter 15: Mothers Know Everything

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks to all my reviewers; you all make me think about where the story is going and how to make it better. I especially love knowing the things that amused, annoyed, or tickled you. And thanks to the people who are reading the story every day as well – I hope you continue to tune in!_

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 15: Mothers Know Everything

_Though she was born a long, long time ago_

_Your mother should know_

"Mrs. Monroe, this is Detective Stella Bonasera from New York. I work with your daughter, Lindsay?"

"Oh yes, Stella! Lindsay has told me a lot about you. Can I help you?" Lindsay's mother sounded pleased that someone had phoned from New York.

"Actually, I need to speak to Lindsay, if that would be possible. She had to leave so quickly, there were some details that didn't get cleared up." Stella's voice was cool and professional, but underneath she was seething. How could Lindsay leave Danny in this state? Last she had checked, he was still sleeping in Mac's office nearly eight hours later, looking young and somehow defenseless curled up under the bright red blanket Claire had bought for Mac years ago, his glasses carefully folded and placed on the arm of the couch in easy reach.

Stella gave herself a shake. Just because she could see Danny, see the pain he was in, didn't mean he was the victim here. If he really had hurt Lindsay, he better hope he stayed asleep; it would make killing him so much easier.

"I'm sorry, Detective Bonasera," Diane picked up on the professional tone and automatically responded to it, "She's still sleeping and I'd rather not wake her yet. It's only 6 am here in Montana."

"Damn," thought Stella, "I forgot about the time difference." She had been in the office for a few hours herself, checking on Danny and trying to catch up on paperwork before new cases hit their desks, even though today was supposed to be her day off. With Lindsay gone and Danny out for the count, everyone was going to have to try to cover them both.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Monroe. I didn't mean to wake you…" Stella's apology was cut short by a peal of laughter.

"Honey, we live on a ranch. Morning starts at 5 at the latest, earlier in the summer. Animals may not know much, but they know when the sun comes up, it's time to eat! Is there anything I can help you with? I can get Lindsay to phone when she wakes up."

Stella thought quickly. She was pretty sure that Lindsay would not phone, not if something was wrong. The young woman had been consistently shutting herself off from everyone the past few weeks, and even knowing why now did not ease the frustration Stella felt with her.

"Mrs. Monroe," she started, a little hesitantly.

"Call me Diane. I get the feeling we are about to get to know each other better," suggested Lindsay's straight-forward mother.

"Diane, I know Lindsay probably isn't in great shape with everything going on. But did she talk to you at all about anything else that might have happened before she left New York?" Stella felt a little awkward asking this pleasant-sounding woman if she believed her daughter had been sexually assaulted.

She heard a sigh come down the line. "Lindsay should really tell you about this herself."

"Yes, she should, Diane, and if I thought she would phone me back, I wouldn't ask you to share any information. But I think we both know Lindsay won't talk and I have two friends here who are in a lot of pain. I want to help them both if I can."

After a few moments of silence, Diane's voice returned, sounding confident. "I can't tell you everything she told me, obviously. Aside from anything else, she didn't give me many specifics. When she came home with bruises on her wrists, I assumed the worst. It seemed to explain her utter collapse when she got to the house."

Stella couldn't speak. It was beginning to look like Danny had been right.

The voice continued, "But when I asked her about it, she said she was a more than willing participant. The one thing she wouldn't tell me was who the young man was."

Stella put her hand over her eyes, nearly crying with relief. Although she could readily believe most young women would lie to their mothers about their sexual exploits, she did not believe Lindsay would lie to this woman, nor that Diane would believe her if she tried it. Sensible competence flowed through over the phone; Stella looked forward to one day meeting the woman behind the voice.

She said, "Thank you, Diane, for telling me. I know it couldn't have been an easy decision to share that information. I promise you I think it will help Lindsay."

"Can you tell me who Lindsay has gotten herself involved with?" There was no doubt that payment was due for giving up a confidence, and Diane was not the type of person to let a debt go.

Stella chewed her lip for a minute. Then she sighed, "Daniel Messer –

Danny."

The silence on the other end of the phone seemed to go for a long time. Finally, Diane said, in a tone which reserved judgment, "You said he was in a lot of pain. Why?"

Stella had to clear her throat, "He seems to think he … forced her." She couldn't use the word he had – the ugliness of it was too outside her knowledge of Danny. She went on quickly, "It had been a terrible day; he was concussed in a car accident, then we were told that Lindsay had been in the plane that went down. We all thought …" she couldn't go on.

"Yes, I see." Another minute went by; then Diane's incisive voice broke through again. "Stella, I have to thank you for clearing up some things which have been troubling me since Lindsay got home. I only know what she has told me in the past about Danny – he is sometimes her partner, isn't he? And he's had some trouble this past year or so?"

That was an understatement, Stella thought bitterly as she agreed out loud.

"Well, all I can suggest for now is that you look after him there, and I'll look after Lindsay here. Somehow, we are going to have to get them talking. I don't know how long Lindsay will be home, but she can't leave this unfinished too."

Stella heard a sigh, and what sounded like a stifled sob from the other end of the phone, and said, "Diane? Are you okay?"

"I'm sorry," her answer came almost immediately. "She used to be so brave, always so strong. Then that rat bastard, Forbes, blew it all away. She carries so much guilt for not knowing enough, not being able to save them all. She was sixteen, Detective. Sixteen and she blames herself for not being able to stop a crazy boy with a gun from blowing up her world."

Stella understood guilt. She knew that it was irrational and overwhelming. She knew it was as destructive as any anti-personnel device some evil genius could come up with. She also knew how seductive it could be: feeling guilty could neatly keep you from feeling anything else. Who would know that better than she?

Stella thanked Lindsay's mother again, and Diane promised to tell Lindsay to phone, although the women agreed that was unlikely to happen. When Stella hung up the phone, she felt better than she had in days. One way or another, she had an ally in Diane Monroe, and Stella suspected that was no small thing.


	16. Chapter 16: You Say Why

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks to all who have responded to this story – I promise that Team Taylor is on the case and things will start to move! _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 16: You Say Why

_I don't know why you say goodbye I say hello._

_I say high, you say low._

_You say why and I say I don't know._

Danny spent the next two days hiding out in the lab, and ducking every time he saw Stella. It got so bad Mac had to text message him to get his ass down to the morgue so they could go over case evidence with Sid.

"Where the hell have you been, Messer?" Mac snapped when Danny slunk into the morgue.

"Sorry, Mac," Danny muttered.

"Not good enough. When I need you with me, I don't expect to have to go looking."

"Won't happen again."

Mac refrained from giving him another blast when he saw the exhaustion in Danny's eyes. "Why are you hiding?'

Danny shrugged uncomfortably and looked away, "Just avoiding Stella."

Sid glanced up from the corpse on the table. "Why would you be avoiding Stella, Detective? Seeing her always brightens my day."

"Yeah, well, she's kinda on my case, and I'm running out of excuses, here." Danny didn't want to say anything else, or he'd have Mac on his case too. One did not lightly ignore advice from Mac Taylor, and Danny had completely funked doing what Mac had told him to do days before.

He'd tried. He'd dialed Lindsay's cellphone over and over, but never managed to hit SEND. Every time he tried, he could hear her crying, and he'd close up his phone and retch. He hadn't spoken to her or heard from her since she had walked away from him without looking back, again.

"Whaddya got for us, Sid?" he asked, still not looking at Mac.

"Oh, I'll let you get away with that for the moment, buddy, but you're on notice," thought Mac. Dammit, dammit, dammit; when Stella told him she had spoken to Lindsay's mother, he really thought this was going to be solved for him.

Danny escaped as soon as he could, grabbing his field kit to go back to the crime scene to look for any evidence they may have missed, especially something which could explain why the victim had tree bark in the gunshot wound. Obviously the bullet had gone through a tree before lodging in the body, but did that make this a tragic mistake, a weird accident, or a murder?

He got all the way to the main doors before he heard his name being called.

"Hey, Messer, wait up!"

Danny risked a look over his shoulder and saw Flack moving quickly down the hallway towards him.

"I have to get out to a scene before cleanup gets there, Flack. Can this wait?"

"I'll drive," Flack kept moving fast and didn't give him any time to argue.

"What's up?" Danny asked when they had driven about ten minutes without a word spoken.

Flack glanced in the rear view mirror, angled to give him a view of his passenger as well as the back window.

"Stella's worried about you."

"Since when are you Bonasera's messenger boy?"

"Since you started hiding in supply cupboards and the mens' room to avoid her. She's not stupid, Messer, but she is getting seriously pissed off."

Danny turned his head to stare out the window. "It's nobody's business. I can deal with this," he said stubbornly.

"Yeah, and if you were dealing with it, we wouldn't be worried. But you ain't dealing with jack-shit, man. You aren't eating, you sure as hell aren't on top of your game at work, and when's the last time you slept?" Flack's aggravated growl tore through the car.

"On Mac's couch, okay?" Danny wanted to confess it, yell it at the top of his voice, but pride and fear kept him silent. "I slept on Mac's couch like a little kid in his dad's car, in the only safe place he could find. I can't sleep at home because all I hear is her crying, see myself holding her down."

What he said was, "You don't gotta worry about me."

Flack made a rude noise, "You're right, asshole, we don't gotta. But that's not gonna to stop us from doing it anyway."

Danny kept his head turned away, afraid Flack would catch him with tears in his eyes.

"Danny. Danny? Call the girl." Flack's voice was soft now, coaxing.

Danny shook his head stubbornly, "No. She was going to phone me if she needed me. I'm not going to push this again."

Flack shut up, but thought, "Fine – you asked for it. We gave you a chance. Now we'll push it."

At the scene, Danny found a tree that showed damage as if from a bullet, and plotted trajectories and possible ricochets on the computer he had brought with him. Finally satisfied he had the information Mac needed, he signaled to Flack that he was ready to go back.

"We're stopping for a slice before we hit Geekville again," Flack's tone did not leave room for negotiation, and Danny sighed as he nodded. He knew the pizza would come back the way it went down – he hadn't kept down much more than coffee for nearly four days now – but if he was quick, he could keep it from Flack. He'd got pretty good at hiding his inability to eat anything, although Hawkes was starting to give him looks. He'd have to come up with a way to avoid Hawkes now too. Pretty soon he was going to have to phone in his job just to keep all his friends off his back.

"What about Lindsay? You going to phone her in too? Oh no, that's right, I forgot. You can't phone her at all. I wonder what she's doing for friends out in Cowtown, Montana? Any big strapping farm boys panting to protect her, you suppose?" That voice never shut up, Danny thought wearily, jabbering on and on at all hours of the day and night. The only time it subsided was when he was so involved with his work that he could tune out everything else for a while, but Mac was refusing to give him double shifts, instead sending him home to sleep.

"Macbeth has murdered sleep," he muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" Flack asked.

"I could murder a slice," Danny answered quickly. It wasn't a complete lie; it's just that all his food seemed to be possessed by the ghost of Banquo, refusing to stay decently murdered.

They ate at a little restaurant they used to go to with Aiden sometimes. Now there was a girl could cook, and eat too, Danny thought. Aiden had been so full of life until that double-damned prick Pratt had ambushed her, beating her to death, then burning the body. Danny could feel his gorge rise at the thought. Nope, this slice wasn't even going to pretend to be respectably buried first before it staged a "guest at the banquet" scene.

Don Flack watched Danny go pale and drop his food on the plate in front of him. Okay, now he agreed with Stella. A day without food wouldn't kill anyone, but Danny Messer turning up his nose at pizza? If Flack were a more superstitious man, he'd have crossed himself as protection against whatever curse was plaguing his friend.

Flack drove back, let Danny go hide in the lab, and went to find Stella. Luckily, he found Mac and Hawkes with her, and there was no prize for guessing what they were all talking about.

"Okay, I concede, Stel. He's definitely worse than I thought. He ate one bite of pizza and lost it before we left the restaurant."

"Has he called Lindsay? Left her a message? Anything?" Stella asked in frustration.

"He won't call Lindsay because she was supposed to phone him if she needed him, and she hasn't called. Ergo, he can't call, or he would be 'pushing it'." Flack's face mirrored the worry the others could hear.

Hawkes raised one eyebrow, "Ergo?"

Flack said defensively, "Hey, just because I didn't go to some fancy university doesn't mean I don't read. I know what _ergo_ means. I also know that Danny quoted _Macbeth, _and I know that's bad luck!" He looked around at the three CSIs who were all giving him odd looks now. "What? He said 'Macbeth has murdered sleep.' I havta assume he's Macbeth?"

Stella smiled up at the tall detective, who was leaning casually against the counter in the break room. "You are a constant amazement to me, Don."

Hawkes could swear he saw a faint flush on Flack's cheekbones as he grinned at Stella's comment, a fact he filed away for thinking about later.

"Okay," Mac said, "I really didn't want to do this, but if he's not going to get himself together, we're going to have to pull out the big guns. Stella, make the call."

She nodded grimly. It would have been better if Danny and Lindsay had worked this out, but if she was going to have to interfere, she was going to make sure it counted for something. She pulled out her cellphone, scrolled through the phonebook until she found what she was looking for, and hit SEND.

"Diane? Stella Bonasera here. Fine, thank you, and you? I'm phoning to see how Lindsay is doing." She listened to what was evidently a minor avalanche of information, interposing an occasional "Yes?" or "Hmm." The three men watched on with varying expressions: Mac slightly impatient, Hawkes inquisitive, Flack patient and amused.

"Well, Diane, it sounds like we are in the same boat. So it's time to up the stakes. Let's put Plan B into action." She listened for several more minutes, smiling and nodding, even though Diane couldn't see her. "Okay, phone me when you are set up. This happens today. Talk soon," Stella shut her phone down and looked up at the three men.

"So," Hawkes finally asked, "What's Plan B?"

Stella looked at him coolly. "Shel, did you know Plan A?"

Hawkes looked confused, "No."

"Well, if we didn't tell you Plan A, what makes you think we're going to tell you Plan B?" Stella sashayed out of the break room and down to her office, leaving the three men staring at her in disbelief.

"So much for team work," Hawkes muttered.

"I think we bat for a different team, Sheldon," Mac said, with a hint of a grin.

"I think we come from a different planet," Flack said with a bemused scowl.


	17. Chapter 17: Call Me Tonight

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Plan B! And the promised interaction between Danny and Lindsay. Baby steps, at least. _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 17: Call Me Tonight

_If the sun has faded away,_

_I'll try to make it shine,_

_There's nothing I won't do_

_When you need a shoulder to cry on_

_I hope it will be mine._

_Call me tonight, and I'll come to you._

Lindsay walked into her mother's kitchen just as Diane said, "Oh, Stella, here she is now!" and thrust the phone into her hand.

Lindsay put her hand over the receiver and said furiously under her breath, "Mom, I told you I didn't want to … Stella? Yeah, hi! I'm fine, well, okay, anyway." As she made pleasant small talk, she was making threatening gestures and ghastly faces at her mother, none of which were betrayed in her calm voice at all.

For a few minutes, she answered Stella's questions about the Forbes' case. She had just come back from a meeting with Sheriff Olafson and the court-appointed psychiatrist who was examining Forbes to see how authentic his new memories were. She could feel the anger bubbling under the surface; every professional bone in her body was cracking under the strain of her personal involvement with the case. She couldn't sleep, could barely eat, in spite of her mother's constant urging, and there were now weeks to go before they could even get to trial.

And listening to Stella was driving her crazy with homesickness.

"Um, Stella? Was there a reason you called? It's just I have to meet the investigation team in a while and I was going to go over my notes one more time … Stella? Stella?" Lindsay looked up in confusion at her mother, who handed her a cup of coffee and pushed her into a chair before walking out of the room, just as Stella's voice stopped, to be replaced by a new one.

"Hey! Stella says I have to talk to whoever you are for two minutes or I lose a twenty buck bet, so why don't you tell me something about yourself?"

Lindsay felt all the air go out of her body. Her heart rate, which had raced when faced with talking to Stella, slowed to a glacial rhythm, beating about once a century. His voice was light and mocking, but somehow it didn't sound like the Danny who had called her Montana and driven her crazy with his teasing. He sounded … thin? Stretched? She couldn't describe it, but a mental picture of Frodo Baggins at the end of the Lord of the Rings movie flashed into her head.

She wanted to just hang up and pretend this hadn't happened. She hadn't phoned Danny, even though she had promised to, even though she had meant to. Every time she thought about it, something else came up, and she put it off until she had more time, or it wasn't so late, or she wasn't going to meet someone, or … She had left him that one short text message, knowing he would be frantic if she didn't, and then had tried to pretend her part was over.

Apparently, not everyone agreed. If her mother and Stella had got together, she knew they would just keep setting up this scenario until Danny and she talked, so maybe it was better to get it over with.

"Well, I'm 5 feet 3 inches and can take down a grown man with a flying tackle."

She tried for an equally light tone, but she could tell it hadn't worked when she heard his intake of breath. She put her head in her hands.

"Lindsay."

"Hey, Danny."

She could picture him with his glasses pushed up on his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, fiddling with something, anything to keep his hands busy.

"I guess someone thinks we should talk, eh?" Again, she was going for a light tone, but she knew she was failing miserably.

"Stella ambushed me, but I'm pretty sure it was a group effort." A minute of silence, then he went on, "Ya' okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. The case is coming together; it looks like Forbes was partially right. We have all the evidence we need to show that he didn't shoot at least two of the victims."

"My friends," her inner voice cried out in outrage at the professional tone, "Not victims. Mark and Laura. I went to kindergarten with them. I went to their birthday parties. I went on a field trip to Drumheller, Alberta with them to see dinosaur bones when we were 14. We went skinny dipping the summer before they were killed. Not just victims."

Her voice showed no break as she went on out loud, "It looks like the other two were shot by Forbes' gun, so his new plea won't wash."

"Good. That's good." Danny's voice on the phone was diffident as he took a breath and added, "But you? Are you all right?"

Lindsay smiled reassuringly, hoping he would hear it in her voice. "Danny, I'm fine. And about what happened before I left …"

She wasn't sure exactly how to tell him not to worry about it; that she understood it was just something that happened; that she didn't expect it to mean anything to him. She had thought about it a lot, from every possible angle, every night for hours at a time.

He had been upset by her leaving. He had been concussed in the accident. He had thought she was dead. He had heard her sad story about being a victim of a terrible crime. Any one of those things was enough for Danny Messer to have let his ever-volatile emotions overwhelm his common sense.

She was just getting the words she had practiced so often in her head together when she heard him groan.

"God, Lindsay, I am so sorry. I've been sick about it. I didn't mean to hurt you …" His voice gave out while she stared at the phone in shock.

"What are you talking about, Danny?"

"I should never have pushed you. I should have just let you go up by yourself; I knew what might happen. I just never meant to let it get so out of hand."

Shocked, she listened to the torrent of agonized words, streaming out in a hoarse whisper.

"Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Shut up, Danny! Let me think a minute." She had to stop him before he tore her memories of that night to shreds.

Unconsciously, she pushed her sleeves up to rub her wrists where his finger marks had encircled her slim wrists like bracelets. The bruises had faded to practically nothing, but she could still feel the warmth from his hands.

Danny's voice stopped so suddenly she thought that he had hung up.

She closed her eyes and rubbed her head with frustration. "Slow down and back up. Are we talking about the night … before I left for Montana?'

Danny's silence hung heavy between them.

"Danny, I don't know what you are talking about. What I remember was the most incredible night of my life. No one, ever, ever made me feel like that. I didn't even know it was possible to feel like that. So, tell me, what exactly do you remember?"

Her voice was low, as she looked around to make sure her mother was not within earshot, and a little shy and breathless. As she spoke, it all flooded back: the kisses in the hallway that went from punishing to passionate; the sounds she made when he touched her; the sight of her body flushing first with anticipation, then with satiation; the smell of her on his skin. Even over the phone, she could feel the tension break and release in him, and his voice shook slightly when he said slowly, "I remember the most incredible night of my life. I didn't know it was possible to feel like that."

Lindsay wiped away tears she hadn't known were running down her cheeks. She should have called him earlier. "Danny, have you honestly been thinking you … what? Damaged me? Forced me?"

His voice steadied but grew quieter, "Lindsay, I grew up in a world where men took what they wanted. I grew up in a world where a woman shut up or got a fist in the face. I swore I would never do that; never take someone's right to say 'no' away from her. And then I did it to you …"

She interrupted, "Did you hear me say no?"

"I never gave you the chance."

"If I'd said no, would you have stopped?"

Silence for a minute; then the shamefaced admission, "I don't know."

Lindsay growled, "Well, I know. Geez, Danny. You may think you're tough, but if I'd said no and you hadn't stopped, you would still be in hospital while the doctors tried to remove your balls from your throat." She had never been so relieved as when she heard his snort of surprised laughter.

She continued softly, "You'd have stopped, Danny. You may not know it, but I do. I trusted you that night, and I trust you now. You are not the men you grew up with. You are so much more than that."

And just like that, he was absolved.


	18. Chapter 18: Where Do They Belong?

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: They talked – yay! But the mystery is just beginning, and with teams working across the country on solutions, wouldn't you think it would be easy? Well, only if you all stop reviewing, commenting, and reading! _

_So, don't – okay?_

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 18: Where Do They Belong?

_No-one was saved._

_All the lonely people, where do they all come from?_

_All the lonely people, where do they all belong?_

They talked.

That is, Lindsay talked and Danny sat in a warm glow of relief and joy, listening to her voice and trying to grasp the idea that she didn't hate him, that she hadn't been sitting in Montana hurt and angry, despising him or, worse, herself.

It took a few minutes for her words to penetrate through the haze, but suddenly the investigator in him caught something odd.

"Wait, say that again, Lindsay. Did you say that no one noticed until now that the bullets collected at the scene were from two different guns?"

Lindsay laughed, "Danny, I said that like five minutes ago. Weren't you listening to me?"

"No," he said with rare honesty. "Well, not your words, anyway. Just your voice." His tone changed, went husky with longing. "God, I miss you."

Lindsay's breath trembled through the phone line, "I miss you, too."

He shook himself when he realized the silence had gone on a bit too long, and said, "So. Bullets from two guns? How did that get missed?"

Lindsay took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly before answering.

He wished he could see her face, hold her hand as she went through this, but all he could offer her at the moment was the one thing he knew without a shadow of doubt he could do, and that was be an investigator.

"Forbes went outside carrying the gun, and was taken down by the officers who had answered the 911 call sent by the principal when the attack started. He was hit six times; one shot went through his spinal cord, leaving him paraplegic. Students and teachers had identified him going in to the school wearing a Drizabone…"

"Wait a minute," Danny interrupted, writing notes rapidly in his peculiar shorthand. "What's that?"

"A waxed cotton riding coat from Australia, very water-resistant. It's long, to cover your legs when you're riding through the brush, and split at the back so you can wear it on the horse. They were a brief fad here then; even kids who didn't ride wanted to have one."

"But they IDed him positively? It wasn't just any kid in a Drybone thing?"

Danny could hear Lindsay flipping through her own, much neater, notes. He could almost see her, eyes lighting up, biting her lip and pushing her hair back as she concentrated.

"I'm just checking. Danny," her voice rose in excitement. "No one saw his face. They just saw a kid walk in wearing the long coat, carrying something under his arm."

"So, what, we have a gang here? Like Jesse James and his boys?"

Lindsay snorted with laughter. "You just had to get a dig in, didn't you?"

Danny grinned, wanting fiercely to see her smile. "Yeah, well, it all feels a bit Wild Wild West to me. So, you have any clues about who the other shooter could be?"

Lindsay's bright voice dropped again, and he could hear the underlying exhaustion. "No. We're in a cold case situation here, and now we are realizing that not all the evidence was tracked, or even collected in the first place."

She seemed to take his silence as condemnation of the Montana State Police Department, and bristled slightly, "After all, the perp walked out, covered in blood, carrying the gun. Everything seemed pretty obvious. And then, there was an eyewitness…"

And now Danny heard it: regret and sorrow, but underlying it, caustic and destructive, guilt.

"Monroe, tell me you ain't blaming yourself here."

"Danny, whatever the investigators took from this scene, they took from me. I was the only eye-witness; I should have been able to tell them what happened. I should have at least known that there were two people. For thirteen years, someone I probably knew has been walking around free because I didn't tell the investigators what they needed to know."

"Lindsay, listen to yourself. You're blaming yourself for not doing the job a trained investigator couldn't do. You were sixteen – terrified, traumatized. They had a job to do and they failed. Not you." He could tell from the weight of her silence that she still did not believe him.

His voice dropped as he said the words that sliced through him like a knife, "If you had been killed too," if I had never met you, never known you, never felt your breath on my skin, "they would have processed the scene properly. They are to blame for missing evidence that could have changed the case. Not you, Lindsay. Are you listening to me? Never you."

And although hearing her cry tore him to pieces all over again, these were not the sobs that had kept him awake for nearly five days. He murmured her name softly, so she would know he was still there, but he could hear her let go of the idea that somehow she had been at fault, that she carried any responsibility for the actions of all those other people who had so affected her life.

When they finally said goodbye, and Lindsay had promised to phone him again to update him on the case, he sat for a minute looking at his hands, stretching them, feeling the strength in the muscles: these hands which could draw music from the strings of a guitar, could draw trace from the tiniest piece of evidence, could draw sighs of pleasure from a woman. They had hurt her – the sight of her bruises was imprinted on his brain. Forgiven or not, he still had been in the wrong. He knew he would cut them off himself before he ever allowed that to happen again.

He smiled a bit wryly at the thought that Lindsay may not give him a chance to take care of it himself. He was pretty sure her threat had been serious.

Stella knocked as she tentatively put her head around the door. "We're going to go eat, Danny. You coming?" In her eyes was a world of questions she would not ask.

He looked up with a clear gaze for the first time in days and smiled, a real Messer grin. "Let's go. I'm starvin'!"

This time, Flack and Hawkes had to be satisfied with eating only their own food. The team talked and laughed, telling stories and re-trying cases the way football fans will replay games. Stella, who was sitting beside Don Flack and across from Danny, watched his face change when they got to talking about a case he had worked with Lindsay a few months ago. It was coming up for trial, and Danny would be testifying. She was worried that he was thinking about Lindsay and slipping away from them again, but she had under-estimated him.

He looked up suddenly, and stared at Flack, "Why would cops deliberately NOT investigate a case properly?"

Flack bridled a little, "Why you asking me? You implying something here?"

Danny brushed that off, "Fine, oh sensitive one. Hypothetically, in a world far from any we know, why would a whole department not look into a multiple murder properly? We're talking pretty small place; everyone knows everyone else. Four kids dead. Most of the guys doing the investigation would have known at least one of them somehow. Why would they burke the investigation?"

"What are you talking about, Danny?" Stella asked, a little confused.

"Okay, Montana said they found bullets from two guns, right? So they take down one shooter, no problem. Turns out he did actually shoot two of the kids; she said they had forensic evidence of it."

"You two talked about the case?" Hawkes interjected, a little surprised. Really, people were a constant amazement to him.

Danny shrugged, and went on, "When she told us about the case the first time, we were focused on her, so we didn't really listen. At least I didn't. But she said there was new evidence: bullets from two guns. That couldn't really be new evidence, could it? Unless, for some reason, they re-processed the scene and found something that no teenager has found in a school which, as far as I know, has continued to operate for the past thirteen years."

Flack was still frowning, but now in concentration, "Yeah, I get you. The investigators had to have picked up the casings and whatever evidence they found at the time. They just ignored anything which didn't fit into the simplest theory, which was the lone gunman."

"Right," Stella agreed. "Bad enough to think one kid in your nice neighbourhood could do such a thing. Unthinkable to have two."

"The Jesse James gang," Danny muttered.

"What?" Hawkes had caught the undirected comment.

"Linds said that Forbes was wearing one of those Dribone things, a long riding coat from Australia or somewhere. It was a trend when she was in school; even kids who didn't ride wanted one."

Hawkes nodded, "You mean a Drizabone. I remember them; they were big in the 80s for a while, too."

Danny nodded, "Yeah, whatever they're called. So this happened in Bozeman in 1995? When was the Trench Coat Mafia in Columbine? In 1999, right?"

Hawkes jumped in again, "But that name – TCM – came from the movie _Basketball Diaries_, which came out in 1995. The lead character wears a long black trench coat and dreams about shooting up a school. Lots of media coverage about the link there."

Stella was frowning now, "Danny, from black trench coats to Australian riding coats seems a bit of a stretch."

"Nah, because they'd have been around," Danny argued. "Kids would have stolen them from older brothers or whatever, maybe even parents who had them in the 80s."

"These things last for ever, Stel. They get handed down for years," Hawkes agreed.

"Besides, there may not be any direct link. It's just a societal thing, you know? There was a rash of these incidences, and this may have been more similar than was originally thought," Danny continued.

Stella found she didn't really care about the details as long as Danny kept talking with that light in his eyes.

Flack was nodding in agreement as well, "If it's the ones I'm thinking of, those coats make sense too. Cool, a little menacing, completely unnecessary: fits the qualifications of gang gear."

"So, what now?" Stella looked around the table.

Danny turned to the cop at the table, "Same question, Flack. Why would a police force not look into the associates of a known killer, and find a gang-type affiliation there?"


	19. Chapter 19: Hard Day’s Night

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: The case is going to move front and centre for a while, because as long as Lindsay is stuck in Montana, Danny and she can't move forward. Besides, that gives me a chance to write about the whole team!_

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 19: Hard Day's Night

_It's been a hard day's night,_

_And I've been working like a dog_

_It's been a hard day's night,_

_I should be sleeping like a log_

Flack picked up a french fry and bit it in half a little viciously. If there was one thing that really got up his nose, it was bad cops. Careless or dirty, it didn't matter much to him. Son of a cop, grandson of a cop, probably many times descendant of some ancient thief-taker, Flack had few cardinal rules in life, but number one would be "Do the Job."

"Okay," he sighed. "I'll play, but you're buying the next round, Messer. So we have a big case: high profile. What could make the cops screw it up?"

He finished off the beer in his glass, and put it down carefully in the precise centre of the paper coaster, then gave it a twist, frowning thoughtfully as he considered the options.

"Okay, one: they might have just missed it. If the bullets were the same calibre but from two different guns, they may not have tested all of them."

"Right," Hawkes agreed. "Poor procedure, but not unlikely. After all, they had a suspect in custody. You would think they would test the bullets from the d/b's, though. They should have checked to see that all the striations were similar."

"So add arrogance on the part of the investigators to carelessness on the part of the ME and lab rats. Still doesn't add up to anything but poor evidence collection and insufficient processing," Flack argued, needing to speak for the cops on the job. He would play this both ways if he had to.

He went on, "And we don't know what kind of expertise and equipment they had in Montana thirteen years ago. Even now, very few labs in the country are as well-equipped as the one here in New York."

"Shouldn't they have looked at placement at the crime scene, as well? The casings would have been thrown out at different directions, in different parts of the room, indicating more than one shooter. Why ignore that?" Stella objected.

"If they processed according to Lindsay's account, she only saw one shooter. They would just assume he kept moving through the room," Danny replied. "So that's one reason they may have missed something vital: just crappy procedure based on believing they knew what had happened. What else?"

Flack sighed and tried to think like an IAB officer. He hated doing that. It made him feel like someone had taken off his skin, then put it back on wrinkled and full of crumbs.

He risked a quick glance at Stella sitting beside him. He knew she had sat there so she could keep an eye on Messer: shit, that was one reason he had sat across the table too. Seeing Danny down two burgers and a huge plate of fries had been a comfort: Flack had enough peat-bog Irish in his veins to believe that any injury that couldn't be healed with food was probably fatal. So he was glad Danny was eating again.

But a small, mean part of him wished Stella was looking at him with those wide, worried eyes.

He picked up a spoon and started to draw on the table on front of him, trying to concentrate. "Two: they chose not to look any further than that initial evidence and the eyewitness. I did a quick check: this case was big in 1995. It was one of the first school shootings to hit national news. International, really, because it was picked up big time in Canada: Montana is just across the border from Alberta and they were in the middle of a big debate about gun control. The Canadian government was trying to bring in a gun registry – huge urban-rural split on the idea. Still is, in fact."

Flack looked up to see everyone staring at him with a tinge of shock again. "What? Now I'm not supposed to know anything about international politics either? Gun control is a huge border issue between Canada and New York State, too, you know."

At least Stella wasn't looking at him as if he'd suddenly sprouted horns on his head. Her sea-deep green eyes were smiling.

"We're going to have to upgrade you to honorary geek, Detective," Hawkes said with a grin.

Flack rolled his eyes as Danny laughed. "Anyway, assholes, it would be a huge feather in their cap if the brass could say they had the kid who did it, and everyone could sleep safely again within hours of the shooting."

Stella was nodding in agreement, "The gun lobbies on both sides would be following the story pretty closely. Politics would be a strong motivator for keeping any dissenting evidence under wraps."

"Or for just not digging deeper." A familiar voice invoked the lab mantra, and they looked up to greet Mac, moving to give him some room. Flack shivered involuntarily when Stella brushed against him moving her chair closer.

"So, we going cross-jurisdiction here?"

Danny shifted a little uneasily, "Just a little intellectual exercise, that's all, Mac. Keeping sharp. We're trying to figure out what might have kept the Montana State Police from realizing there were two shooters in 1995."

Flack noticed that Danny wouldn't look Mac in the eye. No wonder either; stupid idiot had to blurt out his deepest fears to Mac of all people. Flack couldn't even imagine how Danny was going to move on from that mistake.

Danny hadn't told Don about the night with Lindsay; Stella had let it slip when she was asking him to find Danny and try to make him talk. Flack had been flabbergasted; he'd known Messer a long time, and never known him to treat any woman badly, although he could be careless with their feelings. He had agreed with Stella that there must be more to the story.

The fact Danny was eating again indicated the story had been cleared up a little, at least. Lindsay must have talked him around.

"What have you got so far?" Mac signaled the waitress, and conversation stopped as everyone ordered fresh drinks. All but Flack switched to coffee; if he was going to keep digging in another cop's shit pile, he needed another beer.

They explained their current theories to Mac: sloppy investigation versus quick, politically expedient wrap-up.

"Hmmm. Motivation being the only real difference in those two theories," he commented.

Danny nodded, "And it may not have been as sloppy as we assume. Lindsay told me that they are examining the bullets from the second gun, but I'm betting that they'll be the same calibre for the same make of gun."

Mac nodded his head. "It would make sense. Chances are good, like in Columbine, that the guns were readily available to the boys in their homes, along with ammo."

"It would help to know what the guns were. Most of the ranchers would have at least one or two different types," Hawkes agreed. "They'd have hunting rifles, plus maybe handguns or long guns for protecting the stock. We are talking ranch country here."

The team continued to discuss ballistics, ranges, and the most likely weapons choices for homicidal maniacs to shoot up a school with. Flack wasn't really listening. Without evidence, this really was Sunday-afternoon couch coaching, after all. If they wanted to examine the case, they needed more information.

That didn't mean he had turned off his detective brain, though. He had been thinking while he drank his beer. The bits of the story they had from Lindsay made no sense. No cop worth the badge trusted the account of any eye-witness, especially a shocked teenager who had just seen her friends bleed out in front of her eyes. He had searched what records he could without getting authorization to go deeper from his captain; he knew that Lindsay had been found sitting in a pool of blood, covered in brain matter from one of the boys, Cameron Johnston, whom she was holding in her arms.

He didn't share that piece of information with Messer. Idly, he wondered if Lindsay had. He'd lay odds against it.

Point was, no half-way competent cop would take her statement as anything more than a collection of disjointed impressions.

Which meant the Bozeman police had ignored evidence, or not processed evidence, or …

He broke into the highly theoretical ballistics discussion that had been going on around him, and said grimly, "Reason three, of course, would be cover-up."

The other members of the team fell quiet. Danny looked down at the table. He knew how Flack felt about dirty cops.

So did Mac. It had taken weeks for Flack and him to get back on track after the black coke case, in which Mac had used information from Flack's notebook to take down a cop, one of Flack's own, who had stolen drugs from a scene and killed to cover up the crime.

Stella reached out and laid a hand on Don's arm, which was tense beneath her gentle touch.

He went on, "Someone knew something, or saw something, or suspected something, and tried to make sure that the Forbes kid wouldn't have a chance to turn on his partner. Once Lindsay had given her statement, that person would feel safe."

Danny could feel himself go cold again. He looked at Flack with a hint of panic in his eyes. "But now the case is being re-opened."

Flack regarded him steadily, "Yeah."

"And Lindsay isn't just the eyewitness this time. She's a trained crime scene investigator."

"Yeah."


	20. Chapter 20: Fool on the Hill

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks to all the people who are reading the story every day – I'll try to keep updating daily-ish. To all the reviewers and those who send private messages – your input, interest, and enthusiasm are really keeping me going right now. Thank you so much._

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 20: Fool on the Hill

_He never listens to them,_

_He knows that they're the fools_

_They don't like him._

Lindsay walked into the Bozeman Police Station and greeted the Desk Sergeant, "Hey, Frank! How are things going this morning?"

"Crazies out in full force, Monroe! How're your folks?" replied the man who had known her since she was a toddler living down the road from him.

She grinned over her shoulder, "Good! Working too hard, as always. Perils of the working rancher, though, as you know!"

Frank Bellingham chuckled and waved as she sped down the hall. Lindsay took in a deep breath; she'd forgotten how nice it was to work at a place where she hardly ever had to prove herself. She was a hometown girl made good – went away to the big bad city and came home safe to tell about it.

She breezed into the lab and greeted lab techs and a few investigators she knew as she went, looking for Detective Carl Evans. He was the lead detective on the Forbes case, and she had been assigned temporarily to his team. Her secondment from the New York City Police Department had been made official when Mac Taylor had sent the approval, faxing the form before mailing the hard copy.

Two days after she arrived in Montana, Sheriff Olafsen had warned her sternly about her role in this situation: she couldn't handle evidence; she couldn't do any actual processing; she couldn't talk to any suspects.

"What am I here for then, Bob?" she asked in frustration.

"Optics, my dear," he said in his deep, plummy voice. "As well as, of course, your eyewitness and now expert testimony. I can't afford for my evidence to be kicked because you were involved, but I also can't deny the value of having the sole surviving victim involved. That will play well with the jury."

Emotions raced across her face before she could school herself to be impassive: horror, disgust, anger. He watched her carefully, and smiled encouragingly when she had herself under control again.

"Good. You are a target in this case, Detective Monroe, just as you were thirteen years ago when you were the only survivor. Whatever happened in that school – whatever the investigators missed the first time around – is going to come back and bite us on the ass this time. So I have to keep you front and centre so that we can get the work done behind you. I know that's not fair, but it's the way it's going to be. You can whine about it, or you can deal with it."

Lindsay straightened up until she was at attention, and only just refrained from snapping off a salute. "Sir," was her only reply.

Olafsen's face softened for a moment. "Lindsay, I am sorry about this."

Lindsay did not look at him, simply stared straight ahead and said again, "Sir." After a moment, she asked, "Permission to be dismissed, sir?"

"Dismissed, Monroe."

Lindsay made it through the door and down the hall to an empty office before her legs gave out under her. She sat for a few minutes, shaking and struggling to get her stomach under control. So, she was stuck here for as long as it took, with no authority, no real role, nothing to do but stand around looking like a brave victim?

"Fuck that, Monroe." She heard the oddly truncated Staten Island drawl in her head, and had to smile.

Hence her search for Carl Evans and something to do in the investigation.

She had never worked with Evans when she was attached to the Crime Investigation Unit in Bozeman, although he was a legend even then. She had met him, of course, and been properly awed by the stories of his exploits. He was a real old-school Western lawman: took no shit, took no prisoners, had a deadly eye and a bite like a rattlesnake. Like Mac Taylor, he was a legend in his department, although his style was far different.

Lindsay swallowed a lump of homesickness at the thought of Mac. His military training had made him precise and detail-oriented, but underlying his stiff bearing was a man who cared deeply about his team. Before sending his permission for Lindsay's secondment, he had sent her a personal email, asking her feelings on the matter, and telling her if she needed anything, just to let him know. He closed the message, "Looking forward to your safe return to New York."

Lindsay had cried for an hour, then wrote back, accepting the secondment position. She ended her message, "Coming home as soon as possible. Give my love to everyone."

Her first meeting with Evans had not been promising. Unlike Mac, who had greeted her with a "Glove up and hold the tiger's head," Evans had barely glanced at her, pointed her to a desk, and grunted, "Go through those files and compile witness statements. Your original statements have been pulled. Note any inconsistencies."

That was the only instruction he had given her, not reacting at all when five hours later she had dropped a meticulously organized, cross-referenced compilation of statements on his desk. He had merely grunted again, flipped through it casually, tossed it in a pile of similar documents, and handed her another stack of files.

Lindsay had been in Montana six days, compiling files for four. It was time to take control of something in her life. She walked straight past the desk with a new pile of files on it, past the office chair that could not be adjusted to her petite frame no matter how many times she tried, past the office door of her supervisor and into the lab, where she grabbed the first tech she found and asked, "Ballistics? Where has it gone?"

Stuttering, the tech, who had a shock of reddish blond hair and a pathetic tuft of hair bobbing on a weak chin, pointed down another hallway and tried to give her directions, but she brushed him off impatiently. "Thanks, I'll find it."

She could hardly keep from running down the hall like a kid in school. She had sat back too long, let others tell her what to do and how to do it too often. In New York, she was allowed to run with scissors; no one told her it was too dangerous, or that she might get hurt, or infinitely worse, screw up a case. Mac trusted her instincts, Stella trusted her strength, Hawkes trusted her expertise; even Danny, who hadn't wanted her to go undercover, had only worried about her safety, not her competence. Her stomach clenched at the thought of Danny, but she pushed that away to deal with later. She was still trying to deal with the conversation they had had the day before.

She walked into the Ballistics Lab as if she herself had been propelled, and nearly ran into Detective Evans, who was talking with another tech. He turned around and frowned at her precipitate entry, only to meet her glare. He shrugged and turned back to the man who was explaining the ballistics results, but as he didn't tell Lindsay to go, she stayed, folding her arms across her chest and leaning against a counter.

"So, you see, sir," the young tech said, enthusiasm leaking out of his pores, "The bullets from the one gun were definitely from Forbes' gun …"

"We know that, Brendan, get on with it." The growl was evidently doled out indiscriminately, Lindsay noticed with a little relief.

The tech flushed, "Yes sir, we did know that. Forbes shot Cameron Johnston and Laura Phillips. Ballistics confirms that. But Mark Sorenson and Patricia Collins were shot by another gun: same caliber, same make, but different striations on the shells, see?" Brendan was looking through the eyepiece of a microscope, and turned it towards Evans invitingly, but the detective ignored it.

Trish, Laura, Mark, and Cameron. Lindsay closed her eyes for a moment, seeing flashes of them all: children playing through the endless days of summer, going to school. Cameron was the first boy who had ever kissed her: summer kisses sweet with the scent of hay, with lips lake-water cold. She shook off the memories as Evans growled again.

"You're not giving me anything new here, son. Speed this up – I have a case to solve."

The young man swung around and faced his boss, "This is new. Five of the bullets taken out of Forbes can be traced to police issue weapons. When he walked out of the school, the officers got him down and made sure he stayed there. Most of the bullets were peripheral – didn't hit body mass."

"He was running," Evans said quietly, and Lindsay looked at him in surprise. That sounded more like memory than supposition.

Had Evans been at the scene? She searched her own memory. She couldn't remember any of the officers who had spoken to her on that day; she only remembered being processed by a Crime Scene Unit investigator, who had spoken quietly and calmly, explaining everything she was doing before she did it. Lindsay had focused on her voice to keep from screaming.

"Yes, sir. But one of the bullets, the one that lodged in his spine and paralysed him, was not from a standard police issue weapon. In fact, the calibre and striations match the bullets which were recovered from Sorenson and Collins."

Lindsay had been keeping quiet so that Evans would not notice her, but she gasped at this news and blurted out, "You mean Forbes was shot by his own partner?"

Evans turned to look at her, his gaze cold and blank. Lindsay realized he wasn't seeing her at all, just responding to her comment. "Now, what possible reason could he have for wanting to kill his partner?"

Lindsay's brain was racing, "He could have wanted to finish the job, but then why not kill me? Most likely some kind of clean up though: he could have been trying to ensure that Forbes took all the blame, and that almost worked, didn't it?" She couldn't help the tinge of bitterness which coloured her voice.

Evans' gaze cleared, and he looked her full in the eyes. "Yes, why didn't he kill you, I wonder? Why didn't either of them finish the job?"

Lindsay's phone vibrated against her hip. Looking down, she saw Danny's number on the Call Display, and opened the phone with a sigh. She had promised herself not to cut him off again; his revelations about the night they had spent together had shaken her badly.

"Danny? Hi! Let me just move somewhere with better reception, okay?"


	21. Chapter 21: The Girl is Driving Me Mad

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Melissouza deserves all the credit for the naming of Team Taylor, so I wrote her a little background!_

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 21: The Girl is Driving Me Mad

_I think I'm gonna be sad,_

_I think it's today yeah._

_The girl that's driving me mad_

_Is going away, yeah._

_She's got a ticket to ride._

Danny waited impatiently until the crackling on the phone line diminished, and he could hear Lindsay's voice clearly.

"Linds, are you okay?"

She laughed a little, "Are we going to go through this every time we talk? I'm fine, Danny."

Danny sighed in relief. He knew he was being paranoid, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Lindsay was in trouble, whether she knew it yet or not. The team's discussion the night before had just been a little brain game, but Flack's third possibility had stuck with him all night, adding one more sleepless night to his record-breaking streak. The more he thought about it, the more the idea of a cover-up made sense.

"Lindsay, we were talking last night about your case," he started, then stopped when he heard her intake of breath. "What? Is it okay that I talked to the others, about what you told me, I mean? Jesus, I'm sorry, Lindsay, I didn't even think about it being confidential…"

"Danny, stop! It's fine; it wasn't confidential. I was just wishing I could have been there, that's all." She held on to her control right up to the last few words.

"I'm sorry, Lindsay. We wished you were there too. The table was out of balance." Danny grinned when he heard her watery chuckle; he never let her forget the day she had actually shaved a table leg down a millimeter in one restaurant they used to go to because she claimed the wobbling was making her nauseous. When the owner had seen that hunting knife of hers come out of her pocket, he had nearly fainted. They hadn't gone back there for a long time: Stella had joked that she didn't want to be responsible for the owner's incipient heart attack.

Lindsay took a few breaths until she had her voice back. "So, what did Team Taylor come up with?" she teased, using the name Flack had coined a few months ago and loved to pull into conversations.

They had all gone through a comic book phase after they worked a case at a comic book convention. One of the collectors had been killed because he was holding on to a first edition copy of a Spiderman comic, signed by Stan Lee. The first person on the scene had been in hysterics; Flack had been disgusted to find out it was because thirty comic books had been de-valued with the blood and guts splattered all over them from the shot gun blast.

Flack was vindicated later when that first person on the scene turned out to be the killer. He said it served him right: killing the guy had ruined the collection he'd murdered for. He had started calling the lab team "Team Taylor" after that, because, he said, the Justice League was already taken.

Danny started carefully. Once, he would have said he knew Montana well enough to know how she would react to nearly anything, but the past few months had eroded his trust, in himself as well as in her.

"We came up with three possibilities: the first two could both be true." He described the first two scenarios – inefficiency or expediency – and Lindsay agreed that both were more than possible.

"Most of the people who were in charge then aren't around anymore. Sheriff Olafsen only came to Bozeman from the head office in 2000, so he was in charge when I came to work here. Detective Evans, who is the lead investigator now, was definitely here thirteen years ago, but he wouldn't have been in any power position; he's only in his mid 40s now, so he'd have been just starting then. I think he was at the scene though."

"Do you remember him?" Danny asked gently; they really hadn't talked about what, if anything, Lindsay recalled from the scene.

"No, but he said something about Forbes running towards the police when he exited the building. He wouldn't know that if he hadn't been there. Oh, and I just found out something new, Danny! One of the techs, Brendan, finished the ballistics report: Forbes was shot five times by police issue ammo, and once – the shot to his spine which paralyzed him – by the same gun as two of the victims. I guess everyone assumed the shot had come from the front and through to lodge in the spinal column, but it must have been from the back. That means he was almost certainly shot by his partner."

Danny took in a deep breath, "Well, that fits with Flack's third suggestion. Lindsay, have you considered the possibility of a cover-up?"

There was a long silence. Then Lindsay said abruptly, "Danny, I have to go. I'll call you back."

And Danny was left staring stupidly at a phone listening to the dial tone.

"Damn, damn, damn." He shut his phone up with a vicious snap. Every time they took one cautious step towards each other, Lindsay seemed to turn and run the other way.

He wandered down the hall, searching for Mac. If he couldn't make things right with Montana, he had better at least clean up some of the mess left in her wake. The last time he had talked to Mac, he had been half crazy with the residue of concussion, coupled with exhaustion and a considerable amount of turmoil. He had to think of a way to repair the damage he had done to both Lindsay and himself in that unguarded moment.

He had just about made it to Mac's office when his phone rang, and an unfamiliar number showed up on the Call Display. He ducked into an empty office and answered it.

"Detective Messer."

"Danny, listen. You need to find a secure land line and call me back. Okay? Here's the number."

The phone went dead a second time, but at least this time Danny's heart didn't go dead with it. A secure line? The only one he could think of was in Mac's office. He moved down the hall as fast as he could without anyone noticing, and made it to Mac's office just as Mac was walking out.

"Danny? We have a d/b at Central Park. I was going to get Hawkes to come, but seeing as you're here…"

"I have to ask a favour, Mac. Lindsay needs me to call her on a secure line. Can I use yours? And can you ask Hawkes to ride with you?"

Mac took in Danny's worried expression and sighed. High drama or justified paranoia? Given the situation, he decided to give both Danny and Lindsay the benefit of the doubt, this time.

"I want a full report when I get back, and you and I need to talk, Danny."

"Yes, sir." Danny's cheeky grin was a welcome sight.

He waited until Mac had left, then dialed the number Lindsay had thrown at him, checking it against the Call Display. It wasn't the same number. What was she playing at now?

"Linds, what the hell is going on?" He burst out in frustration when she answered on the first ring.

"Sorry for the mystery, Danny," she said, not sounding apologetic at all. "It's just that talking about conspiracy in the middle of the police station didn't seem like a good idea, seeing as most of the people who were involved in the original case work there."

"So where are you?" Danny asked, only slightly mollified.

"I'm at John McKim's place."

"And he is …?" Danny didn't even try to control the corrosive trickle of jealousy scarring his stomach.

"My partner when I was a uniform. For some reason, he decided to stay on the street, even though he would make a great detective."

Danny could tell from the teasing tone in Lindsay's voice that McKim was in the room with her. The trickle was rapidly widening.

"Anyway, Danny, your conspiracy theory has some additional credibility. John says there have been rumours in the community about who the second shooter could have been ever since Forbes' lawyer went public with his new plea. Most of it is just smoke, but John is chasing down a couple he thinks may be more than that."

Danny rubbed his eyes. "So, you were working on the conspiracy angle already?" Somehow he felt a little insulted, as if he had lost a night's sleep unnecessarily.

"No," she said with some surprise, "The tech just told us now that the partner's bullet was dug out of Forbes. I met John outside and asked him for a safe place to talk to you. On the way here, John told me about some local gossip and the two just gelled."

"And the gossip would be?"

"Forbes was always a loner, until the last few weeks before the shooting. According to some of the local beer-drinkers, he was seen hanging out with at least one other guy."

"Well, who was it?" Danny relaxed his jaw; he had been grinding his teeth.

"That's the thing. No one can remember. Forbes was one of those invisible kids, you know, and evidently he hooked up with someone even less noticeable than himself. You know teenagers: they don't see anyone wearing the wrong brand of jeans." Now Danny could hear Lindsay's frustration leaking through.

"So, what kind of a teenager were you, Miss Monroe?" He tried to say it lightly, break through to her.

She laughed, and his heart lightened a moment. Until he heard her repeat the comment to the other person in the room. McKim.

"I was a science geek, Messer. That's about it."

Danny could just hear an answering deep voice, but didn't quite catch the words.

"And? McKim wants in on this; I heard him." The struggle to keep his cool nearly ripped him in two.

"And a skier. And maybe a theatre geek too." She was laughing still, but Danny could tell he'd been left out of the conversation.

"Look, Linds, I have to go. I'm pushing things with Mac today anyway." He couldn't help his voice going a little cold, could he?

Lindsay's voice was instantly worried, "Is everything okay? Why are you in trouble with Mac?"

"Well, at the moment, because I'm in his office talking to you instead of being on a call."

"I'm sorry, Danny, I didn't even think. Go back to work, and put the blame on me when you talk to Mac. Would you call me at my parents' place tonight, around 9 o'clock, if you get a chance?"

"I'm on shift until 10." His voice hadn't warmed up noticeably, although he was trying.

"Oh. Well, phone if you can, okay? Whenever. Call my cell if it's going to be late, though? My parents go to bed early."

"I'll try." This time, Danny took a certain mean pleasure in being the first one to hang up. Let her listen to the dial tone for a change, he thought.


	22. Chapter 22: Fighting the Blues

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks to all reviewers – believe me, I listen to your comments and try to keep things on track. Thanks to the people who are reading the story as well; I hope things stay interesting for you, too! _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 22: Fighting the Blues

_I don't wanna sound complainin',_

_But you know there's always rain in my heart (in my heart)._

_I do all the pleasin' with you, it's so hard to reason_

_With you, whoah yeah, why do you make me blue._

He put his head in his hands. The satisfaction of hanging up on Lindsay for a change had lasted only a moment, mostly because he wasn't entirely sure she would notice. He already missed her voice, and it didn't help at all to remind himself that she would have kept talking to him if he hadn't shut the conversation down with a completely bogus excuse.

He rubbed his face briskly and grinned a little sardonically. "Hello, my name is Danny and I'm addicted to Lindsay Monroe," he said under his breath. He wondered how many other men would be in that support group, and tried not to think about McKim. "I bet he's tall," he muttered.

So, if he was a Monroe-aholic, he'd better start working the programme to get over her, or at least to find a way to function. Having admitted the problem, the next step he needed to take was "making amends"; he had a whole range of people he needed to talk to. Starting with the man whose office he had taken over.

Danny glanced around the room; he was rarely in here, as Mac did most of his management BWA (by walking around). The team sometimes used the office for meetings, but more often met in the lab, and Mac rarely hauled anyone in for a dressing down, preferring to do that in public too as a warning to others. There was nearly nothing personal in the office: no pictures on the walls or on the desk. Danny could vaguely remember, when he first came to the lab, a picture of Claire and Mac on their wedding day, which Mac had kept on the desk, but that had disappeared sometime in the aftermath of 9/11.

The office was stark and sterile, a working, not living, space, with one exception. A red blanket was folded and thrown casually over a well-worn, comfortable couch, the one Danny had slept on for more than eight blissful, dreamless hours a week ago. He almost gave in to the temptation to lie down and see if the magic would work again. He hadn't slept a full night since that one.

Food had been good though. The meal he had eaten the night before had been the first food that had stayed down since before Lindsay had left the first time. He had eaten this morning, too: a bagel with cream cheese from a deli down the street from his apartment. The owner had greeted him, and made his bagel the way he liked it. Everyone he had seen that morning had been familiar, many of them greeting him casually as he passed. This was home; he was known, and knew others in turn. If he disappeared, people would eventually notice.

How had Lindsay coped with the anonymity when she moved to New York, he wondered. And was she more at ease now, back home where she belonged, where people knew her, shared her history? What was he going to do when she solved the case, settled her demons, and decided to stay in Montana?

Luckily for Danny, a disturbance in the lab caught his attention, breaking him out of his depressing thoughts, and he went down the hall to find out what was up.

Mac and Hawkes had not taken long to process the scene; the dead body reported in Central Park had turned out to be a mannequin, cleverly positioned. They were assuming a frat prank, and Mac was royally pissed at the waste of his time.

Not the best time to talk to him, Danny thought, but then sighed. "Suck it up, princess," he heard Lindsay's teasing voice in his head, and went to knock on Mac's door, detouring quickly to the break room first.

"What?" Mac looked up, irritation narrowing his eyes and hardening his jaw. When he saw Danny lurking at the door, he took a deep breath and motioned him in. "Give me a sec. I need coffee."

Danny carefully brought one hand from behind his back and placed a cup on the desk in front of Mac. Without being asked, he turned and closed the door, then sat down in the chair in front of the desk. He took a deep breath and started, "I have to apologize to you, Mac. I've been screwing up."

His voice was firm, although he did not look up, instead focusing on his hands, which were tightly held together to stop them from shaking.

Mac took a careful sip of coffee. As he had expected, it was made the way he liked it, strong, with just a touch of milk, not cream. He considered the young man in front of him, wondering how many times they were going to face off over his desk this way. He took a deeper drink, and set the cup sharply down on the desk. Danny jumped, and looked up into Mac's impassive face.

"Danny, I don't know what you are talking about. I haven't seen any screw-ups serious enough to warrant any action. By the way, your accident was investigated, and you were found not to be at fault. They picked up the other driver; he was DUI with a .3 blood alcohol level. He was stopped on the side of the road after running another car off the freeway. A family of four was sent to the hospital." Mac stopped when Danny spoke.

"Are they going to be okay? Am I needed to testify?"

Mac's face relaxed a little more. Trust Danny to focus first on the injured, then on his job.

"He pled guilty: jail time and rehab. Your report will be read into the record, but unless something changes, you won't be needed. And the family is okay: two kids were released with minor injuries, an older one in the front seat suffered burns from the airbag, and the mother had a concussion and broken collarbone from putting her hand out to protect the passenger. All doing well, last I heard."

Danny nodded cautiously. "What about the rest of the stuff?"

Mac cocked an eyebrow at him and took another sip of coffee. "What stuff?"

Danny sighed. Much as he appreciated Mac's seeming obtuseness, he needed things out in the open. "I had no business dumping on you, especially not here, not at work. Mac, I need to know …" Danny's voice trailed off uselessly.

He needed to know that Mac really hadn't believed his confession of rape; that one more moment of Messer weakness hadn't put their always tenuous relationship in a bind again; that Mac still trusted him.

Mac stood up and walked to the windows of his office. It was a cruel irony that his million-dollar view used to include the Twin Towers. The absence in the skyline was as startling as the sight used to be. He turned his back on the sight; he tried to avoid looking out the window.

"You talked to Lindsay?" He knew Danny had.

"Yes."

"She okay?"

"Yes."

"Did she agree with your interpretation of what happened before she left?" Mac's voice remained cool.

Danny's face softened; one corner of his mouth hitched a little as he heard her voice, breathless and innocently sexy, "I didn't even know it was possible…"

"No."

Mac took a step forward, into Danny's line of vision, and laid a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look up. "If she's okay, and she doesn't think you did anything wrong, I'm hardly going to argue. Danny, you were not in very good shape when you were in here last. Nothing you said then will ever be held against you."

Danny closed his eyes. "Thanks, Mac."

Mac sighed. He was going to pay for his own past errors in dealing with Danny for a long time, he could see. He wanted to tell Danny he trusted him, that he knew Danny was a good person as well as a good CSI. But words, especially ones about feelings, didn't come easily to Mac Taylor. All he could do was stand by Danny every time things went wrong until Danny stopped second-guessing him.

"We good?"

Danny nodded.

"Good. Then go process that mannequin Hawkes and I brought in. I'm going to nail those little buggers for wasting my time if it's the last thing I do."

He sat back in his chair and swung around with the coffee in his hand, forcing himself to stare at the amputated skyline. When he had asked Danny about Lindsay, there had been a moment: one Mac had never expected to see. Danny's face had lit up, incandescent with – what was the word? Awe? Wonder? Either would do.

He rubbed a hand over his face; he remembered that feeling: the day he had asked Claire to marry him; the day he took her hand from her father and made a promise that he never broke. "'Til death do us part."

He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out the picture of his wedding day. He was happy with Peyton; they were good together. He was, as he had told her, committed to making their relationship work.

But that look of awe, of wonder he saw on his younger face laughing out of the picture, Claire wrapped in his arms: that would never be his again.


	23. Chapter 23: Facing the Music

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: It's so great to have lots of people reading my story, and thanks to all of you! I've also been thrilled to hear from some new reviewers, which is great. If there are any questions you're waiting for the answer to, let me know; readers help keep me on track with all the plot threads I have going! _

_Thanks to marialisa, who sent in the 200th review – consider this a shower of confetti and brass band!_

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 23: Facing the Music

_Always, no sometimes, think it's me_

_But you know I know when it's a dream_

_I think I know I mean a "Yes" but it's all wrong_

_That is I think I disagree_

_Let me take you down, cos I'm going to Strawberry Fields_

As ordered, Danny processed the dummy, looking for fibres, for prints, for anything which could tie the object to the idiots who had placed it in the park and nearly scared a seniors' walking group into a collective heart attack. Hawkes was looking over statements collected by Flack and other officers, and he wandered into the lab about two hours after Danny had started.

"Find anything?" he asked, handing Danny a cup of coffee.

"Yeah, I got prints from at least three people, some epithileals, all from males, fibres from a car trunk – those are being analysed now to see if we can narrow down the car. The rest of the stuff is just bio-matter from the park, except for a smear on the heel. Haven't figured that out yet, but it could tell us where the mannequin came from originally." Danny took a sip of the coffee; it was awful, but it was hot.

"Okay," Hawkes sighed. "I can't see this going much further; once Mac calms down, we'll back-burner it."

Danny nodded judiciously, "Unless they do it again or up the ante, anyway."

Nervously, he took another drink from his cup, wincing as he burned his tongue. "Umm, Hawkes, got a minute?"

Hawkes had been turning to go, but looked at Danny, struck by the uncertainty in his tone. "Sure. What's up?"

Danny rubbed the back of his head, "I just want to say I'm sorry if I've been off the past week or so. This thing with Montana… well, it shook me, I guess. I didn't mean to take anything out on you."

Hawkes grinned, "Don't worry about it. You didn't do anything to me. You and Linds okay?"

Danny shrugged, "I don't even know what that means with her anymore. But, yeah, I guess."

Hawkes looked at Danny carefully, "You sleeping?"

Danny snorted, "Not much. It's okay, though. I'll catch up."

Hawkes pursed his lips, "I can give you something if you need it."

"Naw, that's okay, man. I'm not much for artificial aids, ya know? If I could just … I don't know. Help her out, I guess. Then I might stop having nightmares," Danny admitted, a little shamefacedly.

"Well, come and eat with me now; we'll see what we can figure out."

"I'll meet you in fifteen, okay? I'm just going to catalogue the evidence."

Hawkes agreed and walked down the hallway to the break room, finishing his coffee and rinsing out his cup. Stella came up behind him, reaching past him to grab some coffee too.

"You up for a bite, Sheldon? I need to take a break – if I stare into one more eyepiece today I'll go blind," Stella was working on a routine trace assignment, trying to differentiate prints taken from a public washroom where an assault had taken place. It was back-breaking, tedious, and usually thankless work, but had to be done.

"I'm meeting Danny in fifteen; want to join us?" Hawkes cocked an eyebrow at her quizzically.

"What do you think? You two need some alone time?" Stella teased, but her eyes were serious.

"I think you should come, and I'll ditch early so you two can talk." Hawkes knew that Stella and Danny were close, and he figured Danny needed a woman's perspective on things. It couldn't hurt, anyway.

"Okay," Stella pursed her lips. "I'll meet you – where exactly?"

Most of the plan went fine: Hawkes and Danny met at one of the small diners in the area which catered mostly to the NYPD and NYFD; they had just ordered lunch when Stella walked in, saw them and waved, moving towards them.

Hawkes looked up to see Danny go dead white at the sight of Stella. "Umm, Hawkes, I'm going to go back to the lab. Keep Stella company, okay?"

Hawkes grabbed Danny's arm as he started to move, "What is going on? You and Stella need to talk, Danny," he hissed under his breath.

Danny collapsed back in his chair, "Can't."

"You aren't going anywhere. I'm going back to the lab," Hawkes stood up, grabbing his sandwich to take back with him, but turned back to Danny when he heard a quiet but heartfelt, "Shit, the dynamic duo."

Danny was staring Don Flack, who had walked in a few paces behind Stella, and was heading equally purposefully towards their table. Sheldon grinned, dropped ten dollars on the table to pay for his sandwich, and tipped a salute to the pale young man in front of him. "No one expects the Spanish Inquisition! Good luck, Messer."

Sourly, Danny watched the rat leaving the sinking ship. He had been set up. Oh well, it wasn't as if Don and Stella weren't on his list of people to talk to. He just had hoped for a little more time to work out what he was going to say, that was all.

Besides, he only had an hour for lunch, and he had already been gone … he glanced at his watch. Oh. Only 15 minutes. This could be a long lunch hour.

He grinned a little shakily as Stella and Don sat down across from him, having both greeted Hawkes on his way out the door. They ordered from the server on their way to the table, so they had time to focus on Danny.

"How's Lindsay?" Stella asked.

"We talked this morning; I get the feeling she's being kept out of the investigation, which is driving her nuts." Danny knew the two in front of him would never let things stay focused on the case Lindsay was dealing with. On the other hand, they were as curious as he was; he thought he may be able to keep them distracted for at least long enough for him to think of what to say to them both.

"What do you mean?" Flack was so easy to hook.

Danny explained the set up as best he could, adding his own interpretations to what Lindsay had told him.

"So, the sheriff wants to keep her in the shooting gallery, but doesn't want her touching his case? And her supervisor has her doing clerk work?" Flack's indignation was almost comical.

"Well, I think she's found a way around that," Danny was aware his voice had flattened and shifted uneasily. "Sounds like she's teaming up with her old partner, John McKim. But he at least is telling her stuff. She wants me to call tonight so she can update me on the case."

Stella shot a sharp glance at Danny, but didn't respond to the tone she heard. "McKim a street cop?" When he nodded, she went on, "That probably means he has better access to the buzz around the case. He can lock her into local gossip and other suspects. Are you worried about him?"

Her last question took Danny off-guard. "Not as a cop. Lindsay trusts him, and God knows she doesn't trust easily."

"So what about him worries you?" Stella bit into her sandwich as if it were a casual question, but the tension in her hands betrayed her.

"They're close," Danny admitted after a moment of strained silence.

"What about you two? You talked, didn't you?" Don asked. "Didn't you work things out?"

Danny closed his eyes. "You do know this is private, don't you?" he tried. "It's really just between Lindsay and me?"

Stella was shaking her head. "No way. You tell Mac you've done something unforgivable, you don't talk to anyone else at all, you nearly kill yourself with guilt, and who knows what Lindsay is going through. Sorry, Messer, but you are not doing this without us. You're crap at it."

Danny sighed, "Stella…"

Don broke in. "Look Danny, we don't need details. We just want to know that you are okay." Then he grinned, trying to lighten the mood, "Of course, should you want to share details, especially the hotter ones …"

Stella elbowed him.

Danny laughed though. That was the Don Flack he had prowled with for the past five years, not the serious guy who had been speaking a minute ago. He looked down at the table, at his hands, twisted together, and for a moment, all he could see were the bruises on Lindsay's wrists again.

"When I took Lindsay home, I went upstairs with her. I thought I was making sure she was safe, you know? But I was so angry. The whole day just twisted together, sort of. Her leaving, and then thinking she was …" He swallowed hard. "Then waiting for her to come back. That was hard. All I could think was what if that plane didn't make it either? When she showed up back here, I couldn't say anything. And once she told us, explained what had happened…" he shook his head and took a drink of water, the rest of his lunch ignored.

Stella reached out as if to take Danny's hand, but stopped just short, as if afraid he would break at a touch.

"Anyway, by the time we got to her apartment, I couldn't see straight. I wanted … I don't know. To make her mine. To make her real." He rubbed his head with frustration. "I can't explain it. I just pushed her up against the wall and …" He flushed, unable to look Stella in the eyes, and took a shaky breath. Confessing his actions, especially to Stella, was a penance worse than hell-fire, he thought.

"We made it to the bedroom; it didn't take long the first time. When it … she cried like I'd broken her heart, Stella. She had bruises." He rubbed his own wrists.

"So, what? You left?" Stella's voice was quiet and, like Mac's before, uninflected. Don was looking down at the table, dragging a spoon through a pool of condensation from the water glass.

He looked up in shock. "Of course not! She was crying, Stel. How could I leave? I drove her to the airport in the morning."

"And you two … talked all night?" Stella asked.

"Not exactly."

"So you … slept together?" Stella was trying to keep this conversation PG.

Danny's face changed, softening and glowing, although he had no idea. "Yeah."

Stella pushed a little harder, in a heated undertone. "Lindsay told her mother she was a more than willing participant, Danny. What does that sound like to you?"

Danny ducked his head and refused to look at Stella. "I still forced her," he said stubbornly.

Stella shook her head pityingly. "Danny, for a smart guy, you sure have a lot to learn about women."

Don couldn't hide his snort of amusement at Danny's shocked face.

"Umm, Stella, I'm not sure if …" he stuttered.

She sighed, "Look, I am going to let you two in on a little secret, which could have me banned from the sisterhood for life, and which you are never to repeat under pain of death. Sometimes, under certain conditions, with the right person, a woman doesn't mind being – shall we say – overwhelmed? Especially if the guy she is with is someone who is usually SO cool, SO in control that you have to wonder if there's any blood in his veins. It's … powerful, you know?" She looked at Danny's red face and decided he could manage one more hit before she had to give up. "How was the rest of the night?"

Danny nearly swallowed his tongue, but managed to stammer out, with a hint of a grin, "Overwhelming."


	24. Chapter 24: Tell Me What I Need to Know

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: It's Stella and Flack's turn for a little conversation, so enjoy!_

_Thanks to all reviewers, old and new; it's always great to hear what people are thinking. Thanks to the people who keep reading, too; I'll assume as long as you are hitting the site, the story's not too far off._

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 24: Tell Me what I Need to Know

_I love you, 'cause you tell me things I want to know._

_And it's true that it really only goes to show,_

_That I know,_

_That I, I, I, I should never, never, never be blue._

Stella had to let Danny off the hook after that admission. He was too embarrassed to keep talking, and pled work as an excuse. Stella just laughed at him, but then grabbed his hand as he got up from the table.

"Phone Lindsay."

"Yes, Stella," he answered submissively.

"I mean it, Danny. You need to talk to her again."

"I told you, we talked. We're good." He didn't meet her eyes, though.

"She told you to call her tonight, didn't she? Do it," Stella said with a frown.

"Yeah, when I get off shift, which at this rate won't be until midnight. Kind of late for a call, don't you think?" Danny was angling for an excuse, but Stella shot that down immediately.

"Two hour time difference," she pointed out smugly. "You'll be calling at 10:00, which is about when she'd expect a call, right?"

Danny nodded, beaten. "I'll call."

"I'll check."

When Danny had paid for one more virtually uneaten lunch and left the restaurant to go back to the lab, Don Flack looked at Stella sideways and cleared his throat. "Don't push him too hard, Stel."

She shot him a look and snapped, "What do you mean? I'll shove him all the way to Montana if I have to."

Don held up his hands, "Whoa. I'm just saying …"

Stella picked up her napkin and started shredding it carefully into long thin strips. Don watched her closely in case she got bored with the paper and stared on him.

"If I don't push him, I'm afraid he's just going to do nothing. They have to resolve this one way or another, Don. They can't keep doing this to each other. One of them will crack up."

She had finished making strips, and was now tearing each strip into tiny pieces.

Don took in a deep breath and started again, "Look, Stella. Women have one way of doing things; men another."

"What way would that be? Drink yourself senseless, then go out and bang some other girl?" Her voice was bitter, but she didn't look up.

Don was stung. "Well, that works for some, I guess. Others just shut down for a while, you know?"

Like Mac, he wanted to say, but wisely steered clear of that minefield.

He went on, "And whatever way Danny chooses to deal with this, what will you do? Cut him into pieces? He's fighting for his life here. That doesn't make him the bad guy. She left. She didn't contact him for nearly five days. I like Lindsay fine, but she's screwed this up just as much as he has."

Don sat back with a sigh, "Don't take it out on him just because he's here, Stella. Or just because he's a guy, so it must all be his fault."

Stella looked up at that. "That's not fair, Don."

"No? Maybe not," he admitted. "I don't think much of this is fair. I've known Messer a long time. I know things about his background, his family. He's doing the best he can, and you turning on him… That really could be the last straw, Stel."

He couldn't say more without giving up too many Messer family secrets, some even Danny didn't know he knew.

Stella turned her head away from him, refusing to respond.

Don tried one more time, just knowing he was going to screw this up. "Look, Stel, Danny's been living like a monk for the past several months. Did you know he turned down propositions from both a Suicide Girl and a weekend dominatrix? He doesn't go out to bars; he hasn't been with anyone I've heard about until Lindsay. He's been waiting for her for I don't know how long, and she finally gives in. Next thing you know, she disappears with hardly a word. I don't know about you, but I think that would mess up even a pretty balanced person, and let's face it, balance isn't a word that springs to mind when talking about Danny Messer."

Stella pursed her lips, and nodded slowly. "You're right. She knocked him badly when she left. But, Don, I can see things from her point of view too. She's been holding back from Danny as hard as she can for so long. She had all this stuff to deal with; she's known for a while that she was going to be called back, according to Mac. Her work has been affected by her recalling incidents from the past; that would drive Lindsay crazy. I don't think she's been sleeping much, either."

"Then that day," Stella shuddered at the memory, "I don't even want to think about the day she got to Denver and turned around. When she gave in to Danny that night, she must have just lost herself completely. Then she had to go back home and face all the shit she's been running from for thirteen years."

Stella took a deep breath, "Plus, of course she doesn't trust him. Why would she? She knows what he's like," she raised a hand to stop Don's protest, "What he's always been like; she knew his reputation before she'd been in the lab a week. She may think that now he's had what he wanted, he'll move on to the next unattainable target. I know that's what I'd think."

Don shook his head in despair. "You can't make them work it out, Stella. I'm not even sure they should work it out. What if she doesn't come back? What if she does and they're no good together? How are they going to manage on the job?"

"People manage." Her voice was cool.

"At what cost? And do you think Lindsay is brave enough to risk it? 'Cause I'm not sure he's strong enough to deal with it." Don picked up the cheque and pulled some cash out of his wallet, dropping it beside the money Hawkes had left. "I'm supposed to be working here. I'll walk you back to the lab; I want to check on some results."

Stella waited until they were outside the restaurant, and tucked her hand into Don's arm. "Thanks, Don."

He looked at her with surprise. He had been resigned to the idea that he had pissed her off to the point she wouldn't speak to him again. "What for?" he asked cautiously.

"Talking. Giving me a different perspective. I appreciate it." Stella squeezed his arm, then grinned. "Not that I plan on taking your advice, of course!"

It felt good to laugh.

Stella noticed Danny avoiding her when she went back to the lab, but that was okay. She had some things to think about, while she went back to her unrewarding fingerprinting exercise. Luckily, it was a pretty mechanical task, leaving her lots of pondering time.

Was she determined to get Danny and Lindsay together? And if so, why? She had never been a match-maker particularly, figuring usually adults managed this stuff on their own. So what was behind this compulsion she had to see that these two at least had a chance to work things out?

She had realized when talking to Diane Monroe that guilt was a difficult thing to get over. She had done her requisite counseling after the shooting incident, of course; she would never have been given back her badge or gun if she hadn't. The department shrink had written up a clean pysch eval when she had completed her time; he'd said she was remarkably well-adjusted, she understood that the shoot had been in self-defense, and she was prepared to move on.

The shrink had been wrong. She couldn't move on from Frankie. The abuse of her body had been nothing compared to the abuse of her trust, of the sanctity of her home. She had searched for weeks to find a new apartment – everyone in the department had helped her. She had moved out, but had just packed up and carried all the pain with her. Somehow, she had to let it go for good before she could start to live again.

After work, she dressed as warmly as she could. She had a bit of a walk to get where she was headed. As she left the building, a dark figure peeled itself from the wall and joined her, saying her name as he came up, so as not to frighten her.

"Hi, Don," she answered, a little surprised to see him still there. His shift had finished a few hours before. "What are you still doing here?"

"I had some things to finish up, and I wondered if you might be up for dinner, or something?" His voice rose hopefully.

Stella shook her head, a little regretfully. "Actually, I'm on my way somewhere. Can I take a rain check?"

Don sighed, but answered immediately, "Sure. Any time. Is it something I can help you with?"

"Not really, but I could use a walking companion, if you're up to it?" she offered.

Don fell into step with her easily. "Are we going far?"

"Just to St Augustine's. It's about eight blocks."

"I know." If he was surprised by her choice of destination, he didn't show it.

They walked in companionable silence until they got to the church, where Stella hesitated before turning to Don. "I appreciate your coming with me. I'll be a while, I think, if you want to go. I'll just catch a cab home when I am done."

"I'll wait."

Stella shrugged and went up the stairs to the little door on the side which even on this cold night was propped open. She pulled off her gloves and loosened her scarf as they moved into the sanctuary and were greeted by a young priest in black cassock and white collar with a quiet voice and a sweet smile.

"Are you here for confession, my child?"

"Yes, Father. If I may have a few minutes first?" Stella answered in an equally hushed voice.

"Of course. Take your time, and I'll meet you in the confessional when you are ready. And you?" The priest turned to Don, who was standing back with a sheepish look on his face. "Don?" His voice was suddenly filled with joy, as was his smile, and he reached out a welcoming hand. "How are you? Oh, that just isn't going to do it!"

He pulled the detective into a one-armed hug, Stella was amused to see. "I guess even priests do the 'guy-hug'," she thought with a grin.

"Hey, Tony, how ya' doin'?" Don said. "Stella, this is Father Anthony Reagan. Stella Bonasera, meet one of my oldest friends, Tony Reagan. Sorry, Tone, still sounds funny to call you Father."

"You should see your mother choking on it," the priest grinned mischievously, which changed his face entirely. "I always have the feeling she's itching to smack me upside the head for getting into trouble."

"I thought those days were over for you?" Don teased.

"More or less. More or less. I still find things to get into." Father Anthony turned to Stella. "I am sorry; our reunion is getting in the way. Why don't you go into the church and prepare? Take your time. I know this guy didn't show up for Confession: too much work for you, isn't it Don? So you'll have the church to yourself."

Stella excused herself and moved deeper into the stone building. Strange that of all the churches in the downtown area, she had chosen the Flacks' parish church. Still, it was one she had no connection with, which was one reason she had chosen it. Briefly, she wondered if she could face confessing to someone who had played with Don when they were children; then her well-trained Catholic brain kicked in and reminded her the priest was just the earthly vehicle: she would be talking directly to God.

And that was a conversation long over due.


	25. Chapter 25: Call Me on the Phone

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter: there will be more Stella/Flack to come. But now, back to Montana! _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 25: Call Me on the Phone

_Whenever I want you around, yeah._

_All I gotta do,_

_Is call you on the phone,_

_And you'll come running home,_

_Yeah, that's all I gotta do._

Lindsay felt like she had spent all day waiting: waiting for results from yet more tests, waiting for Detective Evans to respond to any one of her questions and suppositions about the case, waiting for McKim to come back with something new in his search for some verifiable details in the wash of gossip surrounding the shooting thirteen years ago, waiting for evening.

For evening, when Danny would phone.

She didn't even consider the idea he wouldn't phone. She needed him too badly, needed to hear his voice too much, to even consider that the cool tone in his voice when she had last spoken to him was an indication that he was tired of the drama.

She was so tired. Sleep every night was a catch-as-catch-can proposition, as she tried desperately to get enough sleep in between nightmares that she could continue to function.

Even during the day, she felt as if she were walking through a nightmare –every so often photos like those taken at a crime scene would flash in front of her eyes briefly, then a face, masked, dark eyes staring into hers, then the barrel of a rifle, then nothing – and Danny's voice was the one point of light, the one thing she could cling to.

She had been home from the station for nearly two hours now. She had eaten dinner with her parents and they had caught her up on all the family doings, ignoring everything that had happened to her over the past few weeks to focus on smaller, more personal things. She had appreciated their reticence; she really didn't want to talk to her mother and father about the case again. Every time she did, their eyes changed: Diane's blazed with a deep, undying fury, while Ted's just went completely blank, as if he could somehow deny not only the original action, but everything which had come from it.

Lindsay knew her parents supported the work she did, understanding why she had felt called to go into law enforcement, but they would have been happier if she had stayed in the lab. She rarely told them about the dangers she faced in New York, knowing that they preferred to think of her safely behind glass walls looking in a microscope. Scientist, not cop.

But her team in New York knew her better. They knew that she thrived on challenge, on the danger in her job, as much as on the puzzles themselves. She had been terrified when she went undercover in the Hollies case, but at the same time it had been a huge rush.

She shook her head and dried her hands. Daydreaming over the dishes felt quintessentially "rural" to her, perhaps because she had spent much of her adolescence doing just that, dreaming about a more interesting, exciting life while she performed daily chores around the ranch. The only chore she really missed in New York was exercising the horses. She glanced at the clock; it wasn't even 8:00 yet. Danny was just coming off his 10:00 shift; if he waited until he got home to phone, it would be an hour or so yet. She thought she might have time for a quick ride.

It didn't take her long to get out to the enclosure where some of the riding horses were kept, and less time than that to saddle up Dusty, a sweet-natured bay. She didn't plan on being out for long, but she just couldn't sit around watching TV with her mom and dad again tonight. The moon was high, the night was cold but crisp, and she was going stir crazy.

She gave Dusty her head for the first part of the ride; Dusty was used mostly for trail riding, and had some pretty well-set routines in her equine head. Lindsay just went along for the ride, automatically adjusting her seat when Dusty climbed up or down. When her feet were suddenly wet, she woke up from her reverie and laughed. Dusty, bored with the lack of direction from her rider, had splashed into the middle of a small stream which ran through the back corner of the Monroe property, and was placidly drinking.

"Okay, Dusty, message received! Let's go," Lindsay urged the horse back up the bank and kicked her up to a trot. The luminescent numbers on her watch told her it was nearly 9:00; Danny may be phoning even now. Once she reached the moon-drenched meadow, she pushed Dusty into a gallop. They flew through the high grass; Lindsay knew there was some danger of uneven ground, but she trusted the sure-footed little trail horse to make her way even at this pace.

Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Lindsay saw a movement near the trees at the edge of the meadow. She was near the house now, but the Monroes didn't keep any staff on the property; gone were the days when ranch hands lived in. There was a person standing in the shadows; she saw the glint of moonlight on something that looked like a rifle barrel, and then she saw the gun jerk, and, incredulous, heard the shot.

Dusty didn't wait for her heels to dig in; the horse took off at a Derby winning pace almost before the sound of the shot reached them. Lindsay hunkered down to make a smaller target and made it to the enclosure in minutes flat. She flung herself off the soaked and shivering horse, and grabbed one of the rifles kept in a gunlock in the barn to protect livestock from predators. She was out the door, loading the rifle and running towards the shadowy figure before she had even thought about it.

When she came around the side of the barn, though, her father came running out and grabbed her arm. "What are you doing? Was that a shot I heard? What the hell is going on?"

Lindsay shook his hand off her arm. "Someone took a shot, Dad. I'm going to find out who …" she stopped as a car engine broke the still night air, and they heard a car peeling off into the distance.

"Lindsay, go into the house and call the police," her father spoke coolly, but she could hear the fear beneath.

"Dad, I am the police. He's gone. I'll report it in the morning." She turned back to the barn. "I need to rub down Dusty and settle her. Poor thing; she was so spooked."

Ted grabbed her. "I'll do it. Go into the house and report this now."

She was going to argue, but she looked at Ted's white face and bit her tongue. "You okay?"

He nodded, "A little shaken. Go in the house, please. Call John, if nothing else."

She nodded back, and handed him the rifle. "Check to make sure I locked things up again, 'kay?" She turned on her heel and walked into the house, straight up the stairs and into the kitchen. It wasn't until she sat down at the table that she began to shake.

She buried her face in her hands and tried not to cry. She had had no trouble doing what needed to be done, but now a realization was starting to force itself on her. That hadn't been an accident. Someone had tried to shoot her.

She mouthed those words under her breath, and then reached behind her for the phone hanging on the wall. Ted was right; she had to report this. But she didn't want hordes of police and reporters on her dad's property; she wanted to deal with this as much as possible on her own. So she put in her call to McKim.

She was a little surprised when he didn't answer; they had made tentative plans to grab a bite to eat, which she had later turned down in favour of dinner with her parents. He must have found a substitute. Well, she thought, it made it easier to downplay this incident if she could leave a message on voice mail.

"Hey, John, it's Lindsay Monroe. Someone was on the property; he popped off a round while I was passing on Dusty. You guys should maybe be on the look-out; I don't know whether it was deliberate or just stupid. I'll process the scene in the morning, okay?"

She dropped the phone back on the hook.

She heard Ted coming in the front door and went to calm him down. His eyes were a little wild, and the first thing he asked was, "Are they coming out? Who'd you talk to?"

"Dad, I told you, there's no point in anyone coming out tonight; we won't be able to see anything. I'll process the scene in the morning. Let the dogs out; they'll keep anyone from coming too near the house. It'll be okay, I promise. It was probably just some stupid kid."

Ted looked at her sternly, "Lindsay, did you call?"

Lindsay grinned at the parental tone, but said authoritatively, "I left a message for John McKim; he wasn't in, but he'll get it in the morning and if I know him he'll be here by breakfast time. You should go get some sleep; tomorrow is going to be a long day."

Coaxing and comforting, Lindsay managed to calm down first her father and then her mother enough for them to let her go upstairs. She sat heavily on the bed and put her head in her hands. Suddenly, she was shaking so hard she thought she might just fall apart.

The phone rang, and Diane's worried voice called up the stairs, "Lindsay, it's Detective Messer."

Lindsay sucked in a huge breath and tried to calm herself. She didn't want to tell Danny, did she? Pretty pathetically girly, to unburden herself to a man, seeking protection. She was a cop; she was tough; she could deal with this herself.

"Got it, Mom," she called back down the stairs as she grabbed the cordless phone from the landing and took it back into her room, not bothering to turn on the light, "Hi, Danny! Thanks for calling!"

It was no good. The moment she opened her mouth, she knew she wasn't going to be able to pull this off.

"Montana? What's wrong? What's happened?"

Could everyone read her like that, she wondered, or was it just him?

"I was out for a ride, and someone shot at me." She tried to say it casually, but was not successful.

There was utter silence on the other end of the phone.

"Danny? You still there?"

"I'm sorry. Did you say someone SHOT at you?" His voice was pitched a little high.

"Yeah. He was waiting in the meadow by the barn, just under tree cover. Luckily, I saw a reflection off the gun barrel; it looked like a rifle. I went back out to find him after I got the horse in the barn, but we heard the car take off out of here, so I didn't go after him." Lindsay could feel herself calming down as she spoke. It was one effect Danny had on her.

"What the hell …? Did you call the police?"

"Umm. I left a message for John; he wasn't home. Then you phoned." And I would much rather talk to you, she thought.

"Lindsay, hang up and phone the cops. You need to report this." Danny's voice was harsh with aggravation compounded by fear.

"I will, but later. They can't do anything now, anyway, Danny. It's too dark to look for tire tracks; besides, ground's frozen solid up here. The guy is long gone; our ranch is nearly an hour out of town. By the time they got here, there wouldn't be anything they could do anyway. I'll go out in the morning and process the scene."

"Are you okay? He didn't hit you, did he?" The shock and panic in Danny's voice had not subsided.

Lindsay sat down on her bed; she had been pacing around her small room, but suddenly her legs couldn't hold her up any longer.

"I could use a hug." She closed her eyes and felt his arms around her, holding her, checking to make sure she was in one piece after she had dropped the flash bomb to distract the diamond smuggler. That moment had helped her through innumerable nightmares.

"I wish I could be the one to do that for you," he said softly.

She laughed shakily, "You're the only one whose hug would make a difference."

"You sure about that?" If he had meant that to be a teasing comment, it failed miserably. He sounded needy and a little worried, and it thrilled her.

"Hmm. If you were here…I'd feel safe." She could feel a curl of heat in the pit of her stomach. Safe wasn't exactly the word leaping to mind in connection with Danny Messer.

"Safe? What makes you think I'm safe, Montana?" She could hear Danny settle back, in bed, she wondered, or on the couch? She tried to picture him, but all that came to mind was heat: his hands on her body, his body against hers. She was swamped in sensation.

When she spoke, the quiver in her stomach echoed in her voice, "You make me feel …" Deliberately, she paused.

"What?" His voice was low and a little husky; she could feel it rasping up her spine, making her shiver.

"Strong," her voice whispered over the phone line.

"And…?" He was going to start begging any moment.

"And safe." She grinned at his huff of annoyance. Then she heard him chuckle a little wickedly.

"Well, Miss Monroe, let's see if I can change that up a little on you."


	26. Chapter 26: Open Up Your Eyes Now

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Okay, as requested (twist my arm, go on). M-rating on this chapter! _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 26: Open Up Your Eyes Now

_If you let me take your heart I will prove to you_

_We will never be apart if I'm part of you_

_Open up your eyes now, tell me what you see_

_It is no surprise now, what you see is me_

Lindsay gasped, "Danny! My parents are home!'

He laughed quietly, "So? I'm on the subway."

"You are not." Lindsay could feel the flush at his suggestion working up her body to her cheeks.

Instead of answering, he held his phone up to the intercom system, and she heard the announcement for the next station.

"We can't do this." Her voice was weak, though.

"There's no one in my compartment. Come on, Montana; I dare you."

"Danny," Lindsay's face was burning now, and he hadn't even started.

"Lind-say," he drew her name out teasingly. "Think of it as research. You wanted to know why people do this, right?"

She stood up, a little shakily, and locked her bedroom door. "I've never done this."

"It's easy. First of all, find somewhere comfortable."

"Like bed, perhaps?" Her breathing hitched.

"Bed would do nicely." His voice was lower, and that rasp was back.

Lindsay felt as if his hand had just run down her back. She sat on her bed a little self-consciously. None of her boyfriends before had been interested in play of any kind – the first had been a virgin, as she was. Their few times together had been memorable mostly for the feeling of disappointment she had felt; after waiting so long, she had expected something with a bit more fireworks. The second college boy had been a little better; at least he had heard of female orgasms, even he was incapable of helping her to reach one.

Danny, though. Danny could practically make her come just by whispering her name, the way he was doing now.

"Lindsay, what do girls in Montana wear to bed?"

"Well," she started to grin. After all, he had asked. "Usually nothing."

It was Danny's turn to lose his breath, but only for a minute. "So, why don't you get ready for bed, then?" He waited a moment, then added, "And give a progress report, Monroe."

Lindsay nearly dropped the phone. "Umm, Danny? I really don't think I am very good at this."

Danny said easily, "Practice, Montana. It just takes practice."

"Oh? And how many times have you practiced this?" Her voice had a bit of an edge, she noticed with chagrin.

He laughed out loud, "I'm naturally gifted, Montana. The only person I'm going to practice with is you."

Lindsay lay back against her pillows, "Seriously, Danny."

"Seriously what?"

"How many women have you been with?" She closed her eyes. Why was she so determined to screw this up?

"Because if you screw it up now, there's a chance you'll survive. But if you get in any deeper, losing him could finish you." The voice in her head was a persistent buzz in her ears, like a mosquito draining her one drop of blood at a time.

Danny didn't answer for a minute, and Lindsay held her breath. That was it, then. Sex or honesty: it looked like a coin toss, and she'd lost. She wanted to tell him it didn't matter, to forget she had said anything.

She heard a deep intake of breath. "You know how a troll counts, Linds?"

"Sorry. Did you say troll?" She bit her lip in confusion.

"Uh huh. Do you know how a troll counts?"

"Umm, I can't say I've ever really thought about it."

"One, two, many, lots."

Lindsay burst out laughing. Only Danny could take her from virtual sex on a subway to troll mathematics and still have her panting for him, she thought wryly.

"So, your count, in troll, would be …?"

"I'd have to say lots," he admitted.

"Oh." Lindsay picked at the cover on her bed nervously.

"Lindsay. You okay?"

"Yeah, sure," she lied.

"Then lie back and close your eyes. Just listen, okay?"

"Yes." She did as she was told, lying stiffly, still fully dressed, on her bed.

"Relax," his voice deepened and slowed. "Feel me beside you. I start running my hands through your hair. It feels warm, like living silk. My hands go down your back and arms, and I pull you towards me. Your eyes are closed, so when I kiss you, you're surprised. Open your mouth for me, Lindsay. Let me in. I want to taste you: your lips, your tongue. I could spend a lifetime just kissing you and never get tired of it."

Lindsay curled up on her side and bit back a moan. A lifetime of kissing Danny sounded like bliss.

"If I had you naked in my arms, though, I could never stop at just kissing you. I couldn't stop my hands from running down your back, caressing your soft skin, running down your arms to hold your hands. I'd go slow, Lindsay: give you time to catch up with me. I want you so bad, but I'd take my time."

Lindsay stifled a groan. She was way ahead of Danny this time, and the torture of his deep voice was already becoming too much to bear. She could feel his hands on her skin, feel the trails of heat he left behind him.

"Your breasts are begging for my touch; your nipples are erect and waiting for my mouth. But not yet. I can't stop kissing you yet, or I'll stop breathing. You give me life: only you. I can feel your body moving against me. What do you want, Lindsay? Tell me."

Lindsay was biting her lip. "I want your mouth on me, your hands on me. Please, Danny."

He groaned quietly, "Oh, yeah. Beg me. I love it when you beg. Tell me where you want my hands."

"On my breasts. Everywhere." She was unashamedly asking now, her voice hoarse and needy.

"I kiss your throat, just under your ear. There's a pulse there; can you feel it beating?"

Lindsay's fingers went to that spot: the blood was racing. She moaned.

"Oh God, baby, I love the sounds you make. My mouth trails down your throat to your breasts. Can you feel me?" Danny's voice had dropped to an intimate whisper. She trailed her own fingers down her body as he described where his mouth would go next.

"Danny, I can't wait any longer … please."

"Wait for what? Please what? You'll have to tell me; tell me what you want, Lindsay." It was his turn to beg now; not even in fantasy would he take control again.

"Danny, I want you in me ..." a thread of sound, liquid with need.

He groaned. "Feel me inside you, Lindsay. I'm filling you, feeling you convulse around me. It's like nothing I've ever felt before. There is no one else, nothing else in the world. Just me and you."

She came apart, breathing out his name. His whisper didn't stop, saying her name, telling her she was beautiful, soothing and gentling her as she rode the storm. She clung to his voice as she would have to his body had he been beside her: her one stable point in a tilted universe.

"Lindsay. Lindsay? You okay?" His voice had returned to something like normal, though a bit shaky.

"No," she said on a gasp. "I'm not sure what I am, but okay does not begin to describe it."

Danny chuckled. "So, I'm hoping that's a good thing."

Lindsay stretched and smirked, "Oh yeah. I'm not sure I can survive many more practice sessions with you, Messer. How are you?"

"Shit, I missed my stop." His voice, aggrieved and surprised, made her laugh uncontrollably.

"Hey, now I have to walk an extra ten blocks. See what you do to me, Montana?" His voice was light and teasing; she recognized it from what seemed a long time ago.

"Danny, don't walk. Take a cab, or go back on the subway to your stop." Lindsay couldn't keep a note of worry from her voice.

Danny just laughed again. "Don't fuss, Montana. Tonight, I could practically fly home."

Lindsay purred. There was no other expression to describe the sound she made. "I think I owe you one." She was pretty sure he was going home a little short of purring, so to speak.

She could hear the smirk over the phone, "Yeah, well, I'll hold you to that some time."

"Any time. I like to return a favour, especially such a thoughtful one."

Lindsay could feel a bubble of joy rising through her, one which swept away all the fear and anxiety of the past few months, leaving no room for anything but him. She bit back the words that rose along with the sensation. She couldn't say that, didn't want to say that, for the first time on the phone.

A sigh escaped her as, with a thump, she came back to earth, to Montana, and the reason that she was stuck talking to Danny on the phone, instead of lying in his arms right now, basking in a blissful after glow.

Danny picked up on her changed mood immediately. "You okay there, Montana?"

"No. I miss you. I want this all over so I can come home." Her voice was once more steeped in misery.

"Ahh, Lindsay. If I could, I'd be there to help you through this."

She could hear the noises of the city street underlying his voice, and the combination made her throat close up with unshed tears.

"Shit, my phone is gonna die here pretty soon. I'm worried about you. Be careful, okay? What are you going to do next?" His words coincided with a car back-firing, and brought back the crack of the rifle shot that had chased her across the meadow earlier.

She shuddered, but took a moment to make sure her voice did not betray her. "I'll talk to the Sheriff and John in the morning. I need my parents protected. If there is someone after me, if it wasn't just a random drunken idiot, I want to make sure they don't get caught in any cross-fire." She congratulated herself on how steady her voice had been, but she under-estimated Danny.

"Lindsay, do you have to stay? If it's dangerous, shouldn't you get out of Bozeman at least for a while, until the investigation is finished? This guy is just going to get antsier as the investigation gets closer to him."

"Danny, I know you don't expect me to leave an investigation incomplete." Her voice had gone a little cool. He knew her better than that.

"If you were here in New York, with Mac and me watching out for you, no. But they don't seem to have noticed that you're in danger out there, Montana." Danny's accent was getting stronger every time he opened his mouth, a sure sign that he was getting upset.

"Danny, I promise, I'll talk to Olafsen and John tomorrow. They're good cops. They won't let anything happen to me. Scout's honour." She raised her fingers in the Girl Scout's salute, even though Danny couldn't see her.

His chuckle was forced, but he sighed and stopped pushing. "Phone me in the morning, after you talk to the sheriff. I'm on the afternoon shift. Tell me what's going on, okay? Everything, Montana. I'll feed the team whatever data you find and we'll let you know if we come up with any ideas."

Lindsay smiled at the thought of the team. Having Mac, Stella, Sheldon, and Don at her back was better than a Kevlar vest, as far as she was concerned. "I promise. I'll talk to you tomorrow, Danny."

Once more, words rose to her lips; once more she fought them back. Not now. Not like this.

"Good night, Lindsay." Danny's voice faded as his phone ran out of power.


	27. Chapter 27: That's the End'a Little Girl

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: My readers and reviewers are great! There seems to be a poll going about which of the Montana cops is dirty: so far it's a split between McKim and Evans, with one vote for Olafsen. Let me know what you think!_

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 27: That's The End'a Little Girl

_Well I know that I'm a wicked guy_

_And I was born with a jealous mind_

_And I can't spend my whole life_

_Trying just to make you toe the line_

_You better run for your life if you can, little girl_

_Hide your head in the sand little girl_

_Catch you with another man_

_That's the end'a little girl_

"I did call, John. You weren't home." She repeated herself tonelessly, holding on to her patience and temper as hard as she could.

"I've processed the scene. Here are the bullet casings I found; here are the pictures showing their location. There were few discernable tracks from the car; the ground was frozen hard. I searched out to the road, but the snow was too thrashed up to get anything of much use." Lindsay was presenting her evidence crisply without sidebar, as Mac had taught her. She had the pictures placed on an incident board, and the physical evidence laid out on the table behind them.

The five men in the room stood silent, disapproval radiating off them in a wave of heat. Sheriff Olafsen, John McKim, Carl Evans, and a couple of techs watched the board shape up in front of their faces. But they didn't have to like it.

"You should have phoned the station, or at least called me on my cell, Linds. You should never have done this on your own." John's voice was studiously calm, but his clenched hands betrayed him.

Lindsay sighed. She was getting very tired of this. "You do know what I do for a living, don't you, McKim? This bastard was on my parent's property. He took a shot at me and nearly hit Dusty. Believe me, I processed the scene properly. Detective, if you want to waste your time, go out and re-process."

She turned, a little challengingly, to Evans, who had said nothing yet, leaning back against a table as if bored by the whole proceeding.

He raised his head and stared at her coolly. "I won't bother, Monroe. I'm quite sure you did the best job possible under the circumstances. However, the next time something like this happens, call the station."

McKim's head snapped up, "What do you mean, the next time? Why do you think this is going to happen again? Lindsay, did you find anything which indicated that this wasn't just some stupid drunken joke?"

Lindsay pointed to the only tracks she had been able to photograph, a clear shot of accelerating tires from the track out to the highway. "Smooth, easy, clean. No swerving or jerking. I'd say this guy knew he wasn't going to get caught, and wasn't the least bit worried about what had happened." She could feel herself getting angry all over again. "If he'd been drinking, you'd expect some indication here in the tracks."

Olafsen squinted at the photos, then shook his head. "So he just drove in on the trail, waited for a chance, took his shot and left?"

Lindsay pointed to another photograph, one which showed scuffed leaves and dirt under a tree. "He stood here for a while. You can see," she showed them another photo, "That he had a pretty good view of both the house and the barn from that spot. There were no good tracks, though; the ground is frozen solid and he was careful to stay off any area that was soft or had any snow cover."

"So, he knows how to avoid leaving tracks?" muttered one of the techs. Lindsay glanced up at Brendan and smiled.

"Yes, I would think so. Look where he came in on the trail, too. He was careful to stay on the high point. Also less likely to leave tracks there. And here?" She pointed to one picture. "He got out of the car and dragged something across any marks he had left."

She had been up for hours, first in the woods, then in the lab, developing theories along with pictures as she worked.

"He knows the woods around the Monroe ranch," she went on quietly. "He's either been there recently or has talked to someone in my family."

"Why recently?" Evans snapped out.

She didn't even look at him, "That track is new this winter. My brothers cut trail for it last year so my nephews could skidoo through there from Jamie's place." She put up a quick sketch map of the Monroe property, and across the highway from it, her brother's property, showing the trail from one to the other. "Even last winter, there's no way a truck could have got through the woods at that point to the meadow."

"Truck?" The other tech, whose name Lindsay didn't know, spoke up for the first time.

"Yeah," she answered without looking at him either, but pointing to the one picture of the tire tracks she had managed to get. "See the wheel base and tire width? Definitely a half-ton truck, probably domestic. Can't get enough definition on these machines to pull up a make, though." She bit her lip: the New York lab's equipment would be able to. A call seemed in order.

"A half-ton domestic truck in Montana ranch country. Well, that narrows it down." Brendan grumbled.

Lindsay smiled half-heartedly.

Olafsen stood up and rubbed his hands together. "Right, I'm assigning this case to Ron. Monroe, collect all the evidence and hand it over to him. Ross, grab those casings off the table and process them please."

She looked at him blankly, opening her mouth to protest. He put up one big hand before she could find words.

"Lindsay, you know you can't work on this case. Anything you touch is tainted by your position; even you having collected the evidence could cause us problems. Let us take care of it. Ron Jeffers is a good detective. We won't let you down. Carl and I will stay on this."

She did as she was told, labeling every picture in tight, precise printing, boxing up all her carefully prepared photos and evidence before dropping the whole thing on Jeffers' desk within the hour. She walked away, fuming, then suddenly wheeled back and leaned over the box to glare into the blank brown eyes of a man she had worked with two years ago and not been overly impressed by.

"This," she jabbed a finger at the box, "This is my father's life in this box. This is my mother's life in this box. I am handing them over to you. You fuck this up, and you won't have to worry about what will happen to your soul when you die, Jeffers. 'Cause I'll already have fed it, along with your worthless, stinking corpse, to the Devil himself. Got it?"

Jeffers only nodded, then pulled the evidence box towards him and opened it while Lindsay walked out of the station.

Stella would have been proud of her, she thought, a little gloomily. She'd added the 'worthless stinking corpse', but the rest had been directly cribbed from one of Stella's most famous outbursts in the office. Was it Mac she was yelling at that day? Lindsay couldn't remember.

Lindsay was moving fast down the street, the cold winter wind blowing through the sweater that was all she was wearing over a t-shirt and jeans. She hadn't stopped to grab her coat; in New York, no one would have let her get so far out of the station without stopping her. Even Adam, who was mildly afraid of her, would have sent someone after her at least.

She closed her eyes, wishing she could feel Danny behind her, reaching out to grab her arm as he had one day when she had left the interrogation room, checking on her, making sure she was okay.

"Checking on me. Not checking up on me." She muttered to herself as she paced further down the street, having no idea where she was going or why. All she knew was that this town, this place she had grown up in, was no longer home. She cursed the wind, wrapping her arms closer around herself, and finally stopped to look around her.

She had managed in a short time to get about five blocks from the station, and was standing in front of the local coffee shop, the Blue Rose, which had not yet succumbed to the seductive urban lure of the cappuccino or latte. Briefly, she considered grabbing a cup to go, but then realized she had walked out without her purse or any cash. She had got out of the habit of carrying money in New York; Danny usually paid without asking. She flushed a little; was she really so unaware of his casual care for her? She seemed to have been taking him for granted for a while.

She turned back to the station, chiding herself for throwing a temper tantrum. She knew Olafsen was right; this case was going to get national attention and any way Forbes' lawyers could attack the DA's case, including the collection and handling of evidence, would be great media fodder.

With a sigh, she wrapped her arms close around her now shivering body, put her head down, and trudged back to the station, a thousand thoughts running through her head. How could she help the case without contaminating the evidence in any way?

It happened so fast, it felt like one of her nightmares. There was a squeal of tires, a scream from an on-looker, a sensation of heat in her leg, and suddenly Lindsay was tumbling through the air like a child's doll, arms and legs flung out at impossible angles. She could feel the wind pulling at her, and for a moment thought it was going to pick her up and deposit her safely.

Then she hit the brick wall of the Big Sky Western Bank, and slumped to the ground. Through blurred eyes, she made out a green domestic half-ton truck careening down the road. Everything went black.


	28. Chapter 28: I Know the Way There

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: I forgot to wish The Little Corinthian a Happy Birthday yesterday, so here is my apology chapter (didn't mean to scare you). Also, thanks to all the reviewers who gave me their deductions about the case – so far, some interesting thinking! Let's see if this chapter gives you more to work with._

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 28: I Know the Way There

_Got to get you into my life_

_What can I do, what can I be_

_When I'm with you I want to stay there_

_If I'm true I'll never leave_

_And if I do I know the way there_

"What the hell are you talking about, Evans? How could evidence be missing?"

"All I can tell you is what I was told, Bob. That tech – Ross whatever – he said the shell casings weren't in the evidence box Monroe delivered to Jeffers before she walked out of the station."

The first voice was angry, frustrated, Lindsay thought. The second was cool and in control. She couldn't open her eyes, but every sound seemed to reverberate through her head.

"What are you saying, Carl? I told the kid to grab the casings from the table where Lindsay had laid them out. Why was he looking in the box for them?"

"I don't know. Maybe Monroe picked them up?"

"Why the hell would she do that? Look, Carl, just what is your problem with Lindsay Monroe anyway? She was a damn fine criminalist when she worked here. She's had nearly two years training in one of the best facilities in the country. What have you got against her?" The first voice was aggrieved and increasingly frustrated.

The second voice remained cool, although an additional note of defensiveness had entered. "She's too emotionally involved."

"Too emotionally involved? In this case? Jesus H Christ, Evans, that must be the stupidest thing I've ever heard you say…"

The raised voice broke through Lindsay's blur of pain killers and left her gasping in pain. She couldn't help moaning.

Both voices instantly stopped as one man ran to the door, "We need a doctor here immediately!"

The other man ran to Lindsay's bedside, "Who did this to you, Lindsay? Did you see anything? Lindsay?"

She opened her eyes for a moment, and saw a flash of light, heard an engine roar. Then everything was obscured in pain.

"Move!" A doctor's voice: impatient and authoritative. Someone grabbed her arm, and mercifully, she blacked out.

The next time she woke up, she looked around the room, trying not to move her head and wincing at the light coming in through the hospital door window.

"Hey, sleepyhead." The voice was calm and quiet, and Lindsay smiled.

"Hey, Mom." She blinked at the ceiling for a few minutes, then said, "So. Are you going to tell me what happened to me?"

Diane rolled up her knitting and leant over Lindsay, smoothing the hair from her forehead and helping her to some water. "Chris said you should remember it on your own eventually. I'd hate to show him up again."

As a member of the hospital staff, Diane was impressed by doctors in inverse proportion to how long she had known them. In the case of Dr. Chris Martens, the same age as her oldest son, she still thought of him as a lanky teenager always raiding her fridge and banging the screen door closed.

Lindsay blinked slowly again. "Did he say how long?"

Diane kissed her gently, "When it happens. I can tell you what is wrong with you, if you like?"

Lindsay nodded cautiously.

"Dislocated left shoulder; that will have to be immobilized for a few days, maybe as long as a week. Right leg: severe contusions and separated ankle. Bad, but not as bad as a break. Remember the one you had when you were fifteen?"

Lindsay nodded again, frowning. She was trying to remember something that had happened more recently, but other than a sound, she was drawing a blank.

"You also have a severe concussion; no permanent damage, he thinks. You hit pretty hard."

"Hit what pretty hard?" Lindsay wondered, but didn't bother asking.

"Mama, can I ask you two favours?'

"What can I do for you?"

"First, remember what I told you when I came home? About the bruises? Can you forget everything I told you, please?"

Diane looked at her with a gleam of mischief in her eyes. "What bruises?" she said innocently.

Lindsay would have laughed, but everything hurt.

"And the second thing?"

"Could you phone Danny Messer for me please?"

Diane looked at the watch attached to her uniform, which Lindsay only now realized she was wearing.

"Your father is at the airport now."

Lindsay blinked again at the apparent _non sequitur._ "Why?"

Diane grinned at her daughter, "Because I'm at work? I have to go back on shift too; my break is over."

"Mom, give me a break. I got a concussion here," Lindsay started. Only a mother or a native New Yorker would have heard the touch of Staten Island in her voice.

"Hush now. Go back to sleep, Lindsay; it'll all be clearer when you wake up next time."

She was asleep before her mother walked out of the room.

Lindsay stirred restlessly, trying to break out of the nightmare stalking her. She had been walking; then she heard a gun shot. When she looked down, she was covered in blood and brain matter, but it wasn't Cameron lying on the ground in front of her, it was Danny. She looked up and saw a truck coming towards her, then a masked face and dark eyes glaring at her.

She came awake with a gasp, and someone standing by the window turned to bend over her.

Not fair, she thought with a frown. If her mind was going to keep playing tricks on her, did it have to make things so hard? She closed her eyes against what she was seeing.

"Come on, Montana. The Sleeping Beauty act was cute while it lasted, but it's time to come up with another gimmick."

Lindsay smiled a little, but refused to open her eyes. Damn hallucination. It even got the voice right.

"Okay, I'll play along, but remember it was your idea."

The figure bent over her again and a warm mouth covered hers. Her eyes flew open in surprise, then closed again in dreamy pleasure. Her right hand curled around his neck to hold him closer as she opened her lips and he deepened the kiss. Her head started spinning, and the heart monitor she was attached to began to beep a little faster.

Slowly, before they were raided by a medical team, Danny eased back, hooking a chair with his foot to pull it closer and perching on the end of it, trying to find a way to lean on the bed without touching any part of Lindsay which was bruised, battered, or bandaged. It didn't leave him a lot of options.

"Damn," she whispered. "Not fair."

"What's not fair, sweetheart?" He tenderly pushed hair off her forehead and caressed her cheek, carefully avoiding the bruises and scratches.

"This hallucination even tastes right. I gotta get me some of these drugs for home."

Danny laughed and touched her eyelids delicately with his finger. "Not dreaming, Montana. Open your eyes and look at me. I'm really here."

"How? Why?" Brown eyes met blue and widened.

"You hadn't phoned me by the time I got into work, so I called your parents' house. Diane had just hung up on Sheriff Olafsen, and was on her way in to the hospital. She told me what had happened. I caught the next flight out." Danny's voice was calm and quiet, but Lindsay could see the stark terror clouding his eyes.

"Now I know you're a mirage. No way Mac Taylor let you drop everything and come to Bozeman." She was searching his face carefully, wanting to believe.

"Who do you think looked up the flights, and drove me to Kennedy airport? Did you know that it only takes two hours to get from New York to Bozeman, even though you spend four hours in the air?"

"What about your shifts?"

"Stella, Hawkes, plus Penn and Craig from day shift. All covered." His voice remained soft and comforting, but his hand was shaking a little against her cheek.

"Still one indisputable fact that proves you are not really here. There is no way city boy Danny Messer would leave the Big Apple and fly all the way out here to cow country." Lindsay had not let go of her 'hallucination', her good hand still wrapped around his neck, even as she tried to logically disprove his existence.

Danny laughed and moved the few inches to touch his lips to hers again. She moaned a little as what started as gentle caress flashed into flame. Immediately, he stilled and pulled away, resting his forehead carefully on hers.

"And yet, here I am. And I gotta tell you something, Montana; I'm really disappointed in my reception here. I've been in this state for nearly two hours now, and I haven't seen one single cow!"

The duty nurse was coming in to check on the police woman's stats; her heart monitor and pulse oxygen readouts had both shown a strange spike a few minutes earlier. Odd, but not worrying, as long as it settled down again. She paused on the doorstep, though, when she saw her giggling patient wrapped gently in the arms of a handsome young man.

With a sympathetic grin, she closed the door carefully again. From where she stood, the patient's vitals looked just fine.


	29. Chapter 29: We Will Remember

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks to all the readers who keep coming back to this story; I appreciate the time you give it. Thanks to all the reviewers who wanted Danny and Lindsay back in the same state – things are going to heat up now in all kinds of ways! Keep telling me who you think the bad guy is (it helps me make sure I'm giving the right clues!)_

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 29: We Will Remember

_Someday when we're dreaming_

_Deep in love, not a lot to say_

_Then we will remember_

_Things we said today_

Danny sat back in the chair and rubbed his eyes, pushing his glasses up on his forehead. Lindsay had fallen asleep again, and if the last two times were any indication, Danny was going to have to spend most of the time she was awake convincing her he wasn't a figment of her imagination, again.

He grinned. Convincing her was kind of fun, actually.

Still, in between playing the Memory Game with a drugged and befuddled Lindsay Monroe, he was having far too much time to think, and he didn't like the way his thoughts were headed. He had been in Bozeman for nearly five hours. So far, no one from the police had been in to see Lindsay. Her clothes had not been picked up for analysis, and her statement had not been taken, according to the duty nurse, who had been in a few times doing routine checks.

Danny closed his eyes, reliving the moment his heart had stopped earlier that day. He had been on edge all morning, waiting to hear from Lindsay. Not able to sleep even though he wasn't on shift until afternoon, he had found himself wandering the streets, trying to find somewhere to be. He'd dropped in at the Youth Centre to see if there were any kids wanting a game of pick up; he'd done some laundry; he'd even picked up the phone and called his mother, who was instantly suspicious of his motives.

Finally, he had shown up at work an hour early. When noon came and went with no call from Lindsay, he fought down a rush of panic and concentrated on the tests Mac had set him to run. Every few minutes though, he checked his watch for the time, and his phone for a message. By the time it hit noon Montana time, he felt as if he had been chewing on dynamite: ready to blow at a touch.

He had called the number he had gone to some pains to find the night before. As soon as he heard Diane Monroe's voice, all other thoughts flew out of his head. He had identified himself, again, as Detective Messer.

"Danny," Diane had said in a tight and frightened voice, "Lindsay has been in an accident. I just got the call; I'm on the way to the hospital now."

Even now, after holding Lindsay and knowing she was going to be all right, Danny felt his heart stop at the memory of those words.

"What the hell happened? I thought she was at the station?" His voice was raw.

"I don't know. She was walking, maybe to get a cup of coffee, and she was hit by a car. I have to go; she may need surgery. I'll have to sign."

"Mrs. Monroe, if I came to Bozeman…?" Danny didn't really know what he was asking.

Diane sighed in relief. "Danny, call this number before you board the plane." She gave him a cell number. "One of us will pick you up at the airport when you get in."

Danny was a little shaken by her certainty. "Are you sure?"

"Look, Detective," she emphasized his title, "So far with Olafsen and Evans in charge, my daughter has been ignored, belittled, shot at, and now smashed to pieces by a car. If I have to go with a hired gunfighter, you better believe I'm going to do it. So ride on into town, partner; we have a case to solve."

Danny laughed; it was easy to see where Lindsay got her spunk from. And that wasn't a word he would normally use.

Danny pushed the uncomfortable chair a little closer to Lindsay's hospital bed. If she ran true to form, his Sleeping Beauty would wake up in less than an hour, and they would go through the whole hallucination thing again. It was nearly 10:00 pm his time, and he hadn't been sleeping much, but he couldn't see that changing as long as he was stuck in this chair.

His mind went back again to what happened after his conversation with Diane. After being assured his presence in Montana was welcomed, even needed, he had gone to Mac, asking once more for help. It hadn't taken Mac five minutes to approve his vacation time, find the next flight out of Kennedy, and requisition a car. All Danny had had to do was grab his overnight bag from his locker, tell Stella where he was going and text Flack to let him know, and trust Mac to get him to the airport.

The flight had gone by in a blur; Danny wasn't used to flying, and he had no idea it was so blindingly boring. Somehow, he had a window seat, but when he looked out to see wheatfields, all he could see was brown earth streaked with patches of white, which he assumed was snow, and scored with twisting ribbons of blue-gray which were probably rivers, although whether creeks or the Mississippi, he couldn't tell.

Lindsay moaned, a sure sign she was beginning to come out from under the drugs. Danny shifted again in his chair, carefully putting one foot on the metal rung under the bed to brace himself.

Meeting her father under these circumstances had been a bit weird. He had come off the plane and recognized Ted Monroe immediately. He didn't know why; the man looked nothing like Lindsay. She was all her mother, whom Danny first met at the hospital. Looking back, Danny thought Ted and he might have known each other by the identical look of controlled panic in their eyes, the shared thought that each had failed in his primary purpose in life: to protect Lindsay Monroe.

They had talked only a little on the way into the hospital. Ted had refused to tell Danny anything about the accident, saying he thought Danny should hear it from the police so he could draw his own conclusions. "I tell you one thing for free though, Detective Messer, Olafsen better hope he gets that asshole behind bars before I catch him. I'd save the county the cost of a trial."

The grim determination in Ted's voice left Danny in no doubt of his meaning.

"Call me Danny," was his only answer. They had traveled in contented silence the rest of the way in.

The duty nurse came in quietly and put a hand on Danny's shoulder. "There are some police officers here to talk to Lindsay. Has she woken up again yet?" The nurse had figured out Lindsay's meds-driven pattern as well.

"Naw, not yet. Soon though; she's started muttering."

"Look, Detective Messer, I don't think they are going to want you in here when they interview her. Carl Evans is a good cop, but a little touchy, you know? Why don't you go and get something to eat; you must be starved."

Danny yawned and stretched as three men walked into the room. He stood up immediately and held out a hand.

"Detective Daniel Messer, NYPD, Crime Lab."

The older man shook his hand cordially, "Sheriff Bob Olafsen. A long way to come for a colleague, Detective."

Danny glanced back at Lindsay, looking pale and vulnerable in her hospital bed with tubes coming out her arms and machines blinking and beeping around her.

"She's part of my team, sir. Detective Taylor sent me out to see if I could help out." A little stretching was good for the truth, Danny figured. Kept it limber.

One of the other men turned swiftly at this, "Thanks, Messer. I don't think we need the NYPD sticking its nose in this business, but the offer is appreciated."

Danny pegged this stiffneck as Carl Evans, and smiled a little dangerously, "I'll leave the offer on the table, anyway."

Evans sniffed and turned away. "She said anything yet?"

"She's lucid when she wakes up, but not for long. We haven't talked about what happened." Talk about doing your job for you, he fumed silently.

The third man, who was in uniform, had been watching Danny carefully. Now he stepped forward, just a little too close, forcing Danny to look up to meet his eyes, and shook Danny's hand, putting a touch of pressure on. "John McKim, Lindsay's partner. Known her since high school. This is the first time I've seen her quiet." He grinned, but Danny caught the proprietary air about the comment.

"She's a fireball all right," Danny agreed with an easy air, dropping McKim's hand lightly. Damned if he was getting into a pissing match with this man, even if he was blond, Nordic-looking, and at least six feet. Danny sighed; somehow he'd just known McKim would be tall.

He motioned towards the brown paper bag, which held Lindsay's clothes. "Shouldn't those be processed by now?"

Evans looked over with a pre-occupied air, although Danny caught the look of unease under the confidence. "Shit. Where the hell is Ross? He should have picked that up hours ago."

"Look, Messer, you've been here a while. Why not go get something to eat, and we'll take Lindsay's statement. Then you can come back." Olafsen's voice was smooth, a politician's voice if ever Danny had heard one.

Danny reluctantly turned to go, knowing that he had no standing here. As he reached the door though, he turned and smiled at the sheriff. "I assume you will be putting a police guard on this door? Two attempts on the life of a police officer must warrant some form of protection, don't you think?"

He shut the door on Olafsen's surprised face, Evans' angry scowl, and McKim's thoughtful frown. Nothing like leaving them thinking.


	30. Chapter 30: GirlKaleidoscope Eyes

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: People had some great, well-thought out solutions to the case: let's see if this chapter changes any minds! Thanks as always to the people who read, and the people who take time to review! _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 30: The Girl with Kaleidoscope Eyes.

_Picture yourself on a train in a station,_

_With plasticine porters with looking glass ties,_

_Suddenly someone is there at the turnstile,_

_The girl with kaleidoscope eyes._

Frustrated, Danny walked down the hall to find somewhere to eat. Unlike New York hospitals, suffering from overcrowding and inadequate funding, the Bozeman Deaconess Hospital had a clean, attractive cafeteria which served recognizable, even healthy food. Danny picked up a sandwich and a carton of milk, which he took over to a window to eat. He didn't plan to leave Lindsay alone with the three Montana police for long; they hadn't been much good so far, and he couldn't see any signs that things were going to change.

He looked up with a smile when Diane put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. "Hey, Mrs. Monroe."

Diane grimaced, "I asked you to call me Diane, please. I can't help but look over my shoulder for Ted's mom when I hear Mrs. Monroe. Danny, I'd like you to meet Dr. Chris Martens. He claims to be a doctor, anyway; I think he cheated on his exam, the way he did on his math test. Chris, Detective Daniel Messer, NYPD."

The dark-haired doctor shot a fond grin at Diane as he shook Danny's hand, "That test I cheated on was in Grade Three, just in case you're worrying! How come I still have to call you Mrs. Monroe?"

"Maybe I'll let you call me Diane when you grow up. Chris has been hanging around the house since he was six, Danny; he and my son Jamie were in school together."

They joined Danny at the table, both drinking another in what was probably an endless series of cups of coffee. Danny put down the carton of milk he had finished, and Diane glanced at it, askance.

"Can I grab you a coffee?" she asked.

"Naw, I'm good. Thanks though. So, Dr. Martens, how is Lindsay? Can either of you tell me exactly what happened?"

The two looked at each other, then the young man sighed, "Call me Chris; we're going to get to know each other fairly well. Medically, I can tell you she was fucking lucky."

Diane winced at the language, but said nothing.

"Sorry, Diane, but you know she was. She was walking through the intersection when she was hit by a truck. One witness said she was most of the way through, and she may have seen it coming and jumped, which would explain why we aren't making funeral arrangements now."

Danny shut his eyes. Dr. Martens was obviously not one of those "need-to-know" doctors; he believed in giving all the information you didn't want to hear.

"Anyway, she was clipped by the truck's fender. It spun her around and propelled her through the air. She smashed into a brick wall, which caused the concussion, the dislocated shoulder, and possibly the separated ankle. That could have been caused by the force of the truck hitting her upper leg, though. Her right leg was severely bruised by contact with the truck, but no break, which is a miracle. In fact, the whole thing is a miracle; if the driver had swerved to hit her, or had been going faster …" Chris' voice dropped. He had known Lindsay her whole life; Jamie had brought her, a tiny baby in a riot of pink, as 'Show and Tell' in kindergarten. He could barely stand to think about what could have happened.

Danny stood up restlessly, automatically tidying up the debris from his meal and taking it to a garbage can. Chris and Diane watched him silently, waiting for him to work out whatever he needed to work out.

"So, how long a recovery time, do you figure?"

"Weeks for full recovery, but she can leave the hospital earlier, of course. I want to keep her another day or two to monitor the concussion."

"Okay. Diane, I've booked a room at a hotel…"

"Don't be ridiculous. I made up Jamie's old room before I left for work. Lindsay will want you close by."

Danny flushed a little. Damn, what had Lindsay told her parents, he wondered. Ted hadn't greeted him with a shotgun, but perhaps he had forgotten in the worry about Lindsay's injuries.

"Thank you, I appreciate that. Chris, will I be able to check in with you later? I'd like to get back and make sure Lindsay isn't too wiped out from talking to the detectives."

"Oh, they showed up, did they?" Diane's lips pressed together, and she snapped the words out like peas from a pod. "Nice of them to take an interest."

Danny grinned tightly at her. Damn, he liked Montana's mom. He didn't stop to think about how unusual that was: mothers had never been high on his list.

They all started walking back towards the ward Lindsay was on. Danny said, "I wonder if they picked up Lindsay's clothes for processing yet?"

This time it was Chris' eyebrows that raised. "They hadn't even done that yet? Usually they are standing over us in the ER waiting for those."

Danny shook his head, his thoughts buzzing like blowflies on a bloated corpse: too many to get hold of just one. For some reason, he was feeling uneasy about leaving Lindsay, and unconsciously his footsteps sped up, only slowing down when he got to the room.

She was alone, and Danny noticed with a glance that the bag with her clothes was not where it had been in the corner of the room, so the sheriff or detective must have taken it with him when they left her.

He moved over to her bed, calling her name softly as he approached. He knew he should let her mother, even her doctor, talk to her first, but he couldn't shake the feeling something was wrong. He could hear her slow, shallow breathing, suddenly loud in the small room.

"Lindsay? You okay, sweetheart?" He bent over her, reaching for her hand, then sharply called to Chris, "Hey doc, she doesn't look right!"

Her hand was cold and clammy, and when she opened her eyes, her pupils were swallowed by the deep brown irises. "Danny?" She looked at him, disoriented and frightened.

Chris pushed Danny to one side and hit a button on the wall as Lindsay's body suddenly began to convulse. Danny grabbed Diane as she rushed towards her seizing daughter, holding her tightly.

"Let him do what he needs to, Diane."

Chris glanced up at the morphine drip, and with a curse, ripped the intravenous out of Lindsay's arm. "How did that happen?"

As his team entered the room, he began to snap orders at them, "Naloxone, stat, continuous drip. Someone opened her morphine drip; she's overdosing. Let's go, people!"

Although it seemed a lifetime to Danny and Diane, standing helplessly watching in the corner of the room, Chris was remarkably quick in getting Lindsay stabilized and recovering. The seizures stopped almost as soon as they began, and her breathing and heartbeat returned to normal under the naloxone.

Ted Monroe walked into the room half an hour after Lindsay first seized, responding to a panicked call from his wife, and saw his daughter, still pale and confused looking. He pulled her into his arms carefully, trying to avoid all the tubes and cords attaching her to machines, and held her while she cried. When she had calmed, he looked at Danny, who was leaning against a wall, silent and grim.

"What are you thinking, Detective?"

Danny frowned, his eyes searching out Lindsay's face. She was conscious, hurting, and still drowsy, but she nodded to him.

"Okay," Danny sat on the end of the bed carefully, avoiding Lindsay's legs as much as possible. Her parents were sitting beside her and Chris was checking her readouts while he listened.

"Someone opened your morphine drip, Linds. You nearly died of an overdose. Another few minutes," he glanced up at Chris for confirmation, who grimaced and nodded bleakly, "and you might not have come out of it. It can't be a coincidence that this happened just after Olafsen, Evans, and McKim were in your room alone with you, can it?"

He recognized the look in Lindsay's eyes and nearly laughed: bandaged from head to toe, fighting a concussion, recovering from a third attempt on her life in just over 24 hours, and she was preparing to argue through a case with him. He put his hand up, "We can talk about alternative theories later. Right now, I want to make sure you are safe."

He turned to Chris, "I asked for protection on her door. Do you know if the sheriff ordered that?"

Chris shook his head, "Not that I know."

"Okay. Ted, Diane, thank you for the offer of a bed at your place, but I think I'm going to have to pass. I can't keep Lindsay safe there, and obviously we can't keep her safe here. I think it's time for her to disappear."

Ted shot Danny a glare, "She should come home. We can protect her."

Diane put her hand on her husband's. "Listen to Danny, Ted. I think he's right. Bob and Carl haven't done a thing to keep her safe. We're too far out of town if something goes wrong. The only problem is, Danny, if you are with Lindsay, hiding out, what will happen to the case?"

"John," Lindsay's voice was slurred and heavy, but everyone heard it.

Danny shook his head, hating to do this to her. "Lindsay, I know you trust McKim, but he's a suspect here, as much as anyone else at the station."

More, in Danny's eyes, but that might just be him, he admitted.

Lindsay was shaking her head, "Not McKim. Mom, call John."

Diane smiled, "You sure, Lindsay?"

Lindsay nodded her head, struggling to keep her eyes open.

"No fighting?" Diane said, teasingly.

Lindsay grinned weakly. "Promise … not to … start." Every word seemed a struggle, but her face was serene.

Ted sighed in relief. "That's it, then. We call John, see if he can get some time off."

Danny looked at the three satisfied faces in front of him. He was obviously missing something here. "John?"

Chris looked up from the machines tracking Lindsay's progress. "John Monroe. He's the middle brother, between Jamie and Michael."

Danny nodded; he vaguely remembered Montana's big family of all brothers, although until now he hadn't known their names. "Why no fighting?"

Lindsay's eyes were closed, so he looked to her parents for an answer. It was her voice that responded though, with a suitable degree of scorn and dismay, "He's a … Fed … FBI."


	31. Chapter 31: Look Into These Eyes Now

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks as always to the reviewers and people sending me messages – I appreciate all the comments and responses. There will be more of the Monroe family, more of the team, more of Don/Stella, and more of the mystery!_

_Oh, and more D/L (naturally)! _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 31: Look Into These Eyes Now

_Big and black the clouds may be, time will pass away_

_If you put your trust in me I'll make bright your day_

_Look into these eyes now, tell me what you see_

_Don't you realise now, what you see is me_

_Tell me what you see_

Danny and Chris went into a huddle, working out what Lindsay would need medically for the next few days. Other than pain relief and antibiotics, she didn't need other medication; Danny's instincts had kept the overdose from damaging her too badly. Danny bagged the IV apparatus to check for prints, hoping to score a kit from somewhere.

Damn, he thought. It was going to kill them both to be kept out of the case for any time at all. But he was going to have to trust that John Monroe could ride the Bozeman cops, and that not all of them were dirty. If he was looking at a conspiracy here, his only option was going to be to get Lindsay out of Dodge for good.

The Monroes were talking to Lindsay quietly, trying to figure out a safe place for them to go. After a few minutes' discussion, Ted left the room quietly; they must have come to a decision.

Diane came over to talk to the two men. "Danny, we've thought of a place; it's one no one would associate with us. Whoever this person is, he knows enough about us to figure out where to get onto the property and where Lindsay may be vulnerable. So we can't just send you to our summer cabin," Diane glanced over at Lindsay, who had fallen asleep once more; even doped and in pain, her daughter had been thinking pretty clearly.

Chris was nodding, "If the person who's attacked Lindsay is the same person as the second shooter, he would have gone to high school with us. He'd be sure to know about the cabin on the lake – major party place in the summer," he explained to Danny.

Diane nodded in return, "So, Ted has gone to make other arrangements. The place we've thought of is pretty rural, but there is running water and electricity, I promise," she almost laughed at the look on Danny's face at the unthinkable prospect of no water or electricity. "Even more important, there is a phone line."

"We'll try not to use that more than we have to; it'll be traceable. Communication is going to be a problem. People can't come out to us; or they could be followed. Chris, we're going to need a fool-proof plan to get Lindsay out of the hospital as well."

Danny could feel his brain sparking in a thousand directions at once. He knew he had to hold it together and make logical plans, but all he wanted to do was pick Lindsay up and run as far as he could.

"Let me work on that. For now, I have this room secured; no one goes in or out without supervision; no fewer than two people in the room with her at all times."

Diane was standing with her arms folded across her chest in a stance Danny recognized well; Lindsay stood like that when she was worrying or thinking things through. She was watching the door as if she could magically wish up reinforcements. Self-consciously, she glanced at Danny and saw him watching her.

"I hate this."

"I'm sorry, Diane. I wish we could make this easier for everyone," Danny didn't know what to say.

"Ted's gone to phone John and make arrangements for the place you'll stay. He's going to call Jamie and Mick too – they can come and sit with her to give you a break. I just hate sitting here waiting for something worse to happen."

Danny reached out a hand, and tentatively put it on her shoulder, "Hey, it's going to be okay. We'll take care of her, I promise."

Diane sniffed inelegantly and wiped her eyes. "I know. It's just been a crappy few months, you know?"

Danny couldn't disagree with that sentiment. He gave Diane a gentle hug, then turned back to look at Lindsay in the hospital bed.

She was awake again, and staring at him, an unfathomable look in her eyes. When he smiled at her over her mother's shoulder, she smiled back in confused delight. "Danny?"

He couldn't keep the laughter in, "Excuse me, Diane. I have to go justify my existence to Lindsay again. She keeps forgetting I'm here."

Diane and Chris moved away to give them some privacy, although Diane couldn't help but listen to the murmured words as Danny explained once again why he was in Bozeman.

Lindsay put out a hand to touch Danny's face, and he kissed her palm. "Have you talked to Mac?" she asked. She had finally believed his story, again.

"No, I have to do that. They'll be worried." Danny hadn't even checked for messages; the hospital had strict policies against cell phones being used on the wards. "I don't want to leave you yet. I'll wait until your dad comes back."

"You met my dad?" Lindsay's face went a little red.

"He picked me up at the airport. I like your parents, Lindsay."

"I'm kind of fond of them, too. Did Mom say anything to you?" Her eyes didn't quite meet Danny's.

"We've talked a lot, but mostly about how to keep you safe. Why?"

Lindsay shot a quick look at her mother, deep in conversation with Chris. "Nothing. It's okay."

Danny decided not to press the issue. "Lindsay, do you have any ideas about what happened to you? Do you want to talk about it?"

She closed her eyes for a minute, and he quickly said, "Don't worry about it. We can talk later, when you are feeling better." His hand brushed her forehead, then cradled her cheek. She had gone pale and he felt like a shit for upsetting her.

She reached up and covered his hand with hers, turning her face into it and returning his kiss. Then she opened her eyes to look into his. "I will, I promise. Just, not now, okay? Give me a little time." Her eyes drooped again, sleepily.

Danny could only nod.

He sat by her bed, holding her hand, while nurses came and went, while Chris made arrangements for Lindsay's medical needs, while Ted returned and spoke to Diane. He watched her sleep and ignored everything else going on around him, until finally, his eyes closed and he dozed, leaning against her bed.

When he opened his eyes, he groaned. Everything hurt; that had been as awkward a way as he could think of to catch a few winks.

"Feeling sore?" It was a new voice, although it sounded a little familiar. Danny turned to squint into the light just hitting the window, and saw a big figure standing on the other side of Lindsay's bed.

He leapt to his feet, ready to protect her, but the other man stuck out a hand with a bit of a chuckle, and said, "Special Agent John Monroe, FBI, and this one's older brother. Well, one of them, anyway. The other two are on their way in."

Danny rubbed his eyes, and shook the offered hand. "Detective Danny Messer, NYPD Crime Lab. Good ta meet ya." As always, under stress, his accent thickened.

The two men took each other's measure; John noticed that Danny had not let go of Lindsay's hand, even when he stood up, and Danny recognized Ted's lanky, muscular build, dark colouring, and deep voice in his son.

"So, we got a problem here?" John motioned towards Danny's hand, still locked in Lindsay's.

"If she don't got a problem, I don't see why you would," Danny answered a little slowly. Brothers with younger sisters. He sighed; sometimes he thought he had spent his life dealing with older brothers.

The agent's eyes were cool as he measured Danny's deceptively slight frame, recognizing his obvious muscle. Danny looked exhausted and stressed, but fully capable of taking down anyone who got in his way. With a crisp nod, John Monroe stood down, "We'll see. Until she says different, you're okay."

"Same goes," Danny said. He kept Lindsay's hand in his and sat down in the uncomfortable chair with a sigh.

"So, pissing all done? Have you both marked your turf and shown off your big red bottoms?" The voice was rough and scratchy, but it was undeniably his Montana's. He turned to look at her, and John Monroe grimaced at the blaze of joy on the other man's face when he looked into her eyes.

He sighed when he caught the answering glow in his sister's eyes.

Damn. An older brother's worst nightmare.


	32. Chapter 32: Help Me If You Can

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Great to hear from so many readers, and I love seeing the hit numbers going up! Let me know who you think the "bad guy" in Montana is; there have been lots of good suggestions so far. Here are some new clues for you. _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 32: Help Me If You Can

_When I was younger, so much younger than today_

_I never needed anybody's help in any way_

_But now these days are gone, I'm not so self assured_

_Now I find I've changed my mind and opened up the doors_

Stella walked down the hallway, searching for Mac as she spoke on the phone, "Got it, Danny. I'm looking for Mac now, but I'm sure if Special Agent Monroe asks, he can have access to whatever he needs. How are you doing, working with a Fed?"

She listened to Danny's complaints for a moment, laughing at his exaggerated claims, "Oh, I doubt he's that bad, Danny. He's Lindsay's brother, after all."

She spotted Mac going into an office. "Just a sec, Danny, I've found him. Hold on." Reaching out for Mac, she held out the phone, "It's Danny. He needs a favour."

"Surprise, surprise," Mac muttered, but his voice was warm when he took the phone, "Hey Danny. How's our girl?"

His eyes widened as Danny explained the latest incident. "Did he tell you this?" He mouthed the words to Stella, who nodded, then mimed shaking her head in disbelief. "Okay, Danny, so what do you need from this end?"

Mac attached the phone to a speaker and turned up the volume so Stella could hear as well, and started taking notes as Danny began to list the tests and evidence he needed help with.

"Some of this stuff I'm going to have to liberate, Mac. Olafsen seems okay, just a bureaucrat, but between Evans and McKim, I'm shut out. I just spent two hours this morning trying to get them to let me look at the evidence Lindsay collected. They won't give me access to the photos she took, and according to Evans, she lost the shell casings."

Mac almost laughed, "Lindsay? Lose evidence? I don't think so."

Danny said, "Yeah, that's what I told them. But someone is losing evidence; that's for sure. No one came from the station to collect the clothes she was wearing, but when we found her ODing on morphine, the bag with her clothes in it was gone from her room."

"Anyone tracking who went in and out?" Mac asked.

"I was in the room when the duty nurse, Cheryl Robbins, came in. She brought Olafsen, Evans, and McKim."

Stella wondered if Danny knew his voice went cold and flat every time he said McKim's name.

"They kicked me out to interview Linds. Cheryl left just after I did, once she was sure Lindsay was lucid and didn't need anything."

Mac could hear Danny flipping through his notebook as he talked it through, adding precise times when he could, estimating what he couldn't. Stella was actually doing a timeline on an incident board as Danny talked, and Mac nodded approvingly. When Hawkes walked by the window, Mac waved him in as well.

"Okay, Danny. If you can upload the pictures Lindsay took, we can run them through what we have here. If you can't get a hold of her actual photos, I wonder where her camera is?"

"That's good, Mac. I'll look for that. I'm also going out to her place with her brothers Jamie and Mick now to see if we can find the bullet; Lindsay didn't have time to do a full search of the meadow, and the Bozeman police haven't looked, as far as Diane and Ted know."

"Back up, Danny," Stella called out. "Anyone else seen entering or leaving Lindsay's room while you weren't there?"

Danny flipped through his book again, then answered, "Cheryl says she thinks she saw one more person in the hallway after the cops left but before Chris, Diane, and I showed up. She doesn't know if he was in the room or not, and she didn't know him, but she saw him carrying something when he left. So he may have taken the evidence bag."

"No name. So description, then?" Stella filled in another line on the board.

"Shortish, medium build, reddish hair, kind of curly. 'Scruffy', says here. She only caught a glimpse."

"They have security cameras in the hospital?" Hawkes interjected.

"John Monroe may be able to find out. Me, my name is mud with a capital N Y." Danny sounded fed up, but mostly he sounded tired.

"Danny, you okay?" It was Stella who asked, and the two men looked at her gratefully. Danny might answer her.

They could hear the sigh, "Yeah. I'm okay. We're moving Linds out of here to a safe place. I've got to go with her, Stella." There was a plea for understanding in his voice, as if he was worried they would think he should work the case instead.

"Of course you do, Danny. Look, don't worry. I'm sure we'll be able to work with John Monroe. You just get us what you can, then disappear good, okay?"

Mac interrupted, "We need a way to contact you, Danny. I can't have you both out of touch." He let it sound like a work imperative, but really he just couldn't stand the thought of not knowing where the two young CSIs were. He had thought his heart was going to give out when Danny told him about the latest attack on Lindsay.

"You can use my cell to leave messages until I come up with something better, Mac, and we'll stay in touch with Lindsay's parents. If you need us to know something, that may be your best bet. I don't know about this place they are sending us to; Diane said it had running water and electricity as if that was something to be grateful for!"

The three New Yorkers laughed at Danny's horrified tone. The city boy was having a predictably hard time adjusting to country ways.

"You'll be okay, Danny. Just remember to keep the wood pile stocked, not to mention candles," Hawkes said seriously.

They all laughed again at Danny's groan.

"Look, guys, I gotta go. I'm hiding out to talk to you as it is; no cells in the hospital and I don't want anyone overhearing me. Here are the numbers," he gave them the Monroes' home and cell numbers as well as John Monroe's cell.

"Just one last thing. Could you do a background check on John McKim for me?"

Mac's eyebrows raised, "McKim? Lindsay's ex-partner?"

"Yeah, I know. Pure as the driven snow, I'm sure. But there's something off here, Mac. He went to high school with the Monroes; he'd 'a been around in 1995. He definitely wants my ass outa here, and while there may be other reasons for that, I'm just getting a funny smell off him. Do me the favour, right?"

Mac nodded to Hawkes. "Sheldon can do that for you. We can text results to your phone?"

"Yeah, or email until tomorrow when hopefully we hit the wind. I'll be in touch when I can, okay?" Danny's voice sounded strained, as if he was bidding familiar shores farewell before taking off across a dark, unknown ocean.

Of course, thought Stella, he is going into the backwoods country of Montana; who knew what he was going to be exposed to.

They all said their goodbyes, Stella adding one from Flack, and sent Lindsay their love, and Danny hung up. Stella pushed away from the desk, where she had been leaning, and looked at the board. "Hard to figure anything out here, isn't it? We just don't have enough information without being on the spot."

"Without Lindsay's evidence, we are walking blind," Mac agreed. "Let's hope Danny can find something more for us before he goes under."

Hawkes' eyebrows raised, "Could be interesting, that."

Stella shot him a quick glare and shook his head. Mac looked at him in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

Hawkes ignored Stella, "Well, considering what those two have been going through, I wonder what time alone in a cabin is going to do to them."

Stella had given up; after all, Mac had been the first one to know about Danny and Lindsay. "She has a dislocated shoulder, separated ankle, and a concussion, Shel."

Mac muttered, "Yeah, but Danny has a pretty inventive mind."


	33. Chapter 33: Promise To Be True

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Some great detectives-in-training out there! Keep the deductions and speculations coming – every response helps me shape the next clues to make sure I'm keeping on track. I hate putting in names, because as soon as I do, I realize I forgot someone really important, so you all know who you are, and thank you from the bottom of my heart._

_And now, back to New York!_

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 33: Promise To Be True

_If I fell in love with you, would you promise to be true,_

_And help me understand?_

_For I've been in love before, and I know that love is more_

_Than just holding hands_

Stella went back to work on the case she had been working with a new girl, Jillian Penn, re-assigned from the day shift to help cover Danny and Lindsay's absence. She was a good CSI, reminding Stella a bit of Aiden with her breezy Brooklyn attitude.

The case was a reasonably straightforward one, and really wasn't taking up much of Stella's mind: a woman had been attacked by a purse-snatcher and had pushed him under a bus when she fought back. From the tox screen, the perp, who was also now the vic, had been so high on meth, he probably didn't even know what had happened to him.

Stella sighed; it was easy in one way to just chalk it up to taking out the garbage: one more crystal meth addict off the street and on a slab. But she had talked to his grieving mother and younger sister, who showed her his room filled with sports memorabilia and the innocent past times of the teenager he had been only a few months before. Meth was a drug which destroyed people before their loved ones' eyes, and Stella had seen the signs in the girl already: the gaunt look of someone who has lost weight rapidly and recently, the pock marks on the skin from incessant scratching. The mother had more heartbreak coming up.

Impatiently, she pushed her hair back from her face, and concentrated on finishing her processing and posting her results. Social workers dealt with families, not CSIs. If she tried to take on every kid she ran into through even a normal shift, she'd burn out in a month.

Finally, she cleaned up her station and went to get a cup of coffee, but when she went into the break room, the coffee maker was empty, and she was too restless to start another pot. Instead, she grabbed her purse from her office, texted a quick message to Penn, and swung out of the building. She was going to find a coffee shop by throwing a rock and going into the first one she hit, and drink something that would throw off her careful monitoring of calories for at least a week.

She charged down the stairs in her usual headlong way, and literally ran into Don Flack at the bottom. Laughing, she put her hands up and pushed herself off his chest, while he grabbed her arms to help her regain her balance.

Somehow, it didn't help much.

"Whoa, Stel, where's the fire?" His eyes were alight with humour.

"No coffee in the break room, and if I don't get a caffeine fix now, I'm going under." She stepped back carefully and grinned.

"Want some company?" he offered casually. "I'm off."

"Sure, I can update you on the continuing saga of Montana." Her voice was light as she used Danny's nickname for Lindsay, but there was an underlying note of worry.

As they paced easily down the street, she filled Don in on the new attempt on Lindsay's life. His eyes were wide with disbelief as they went into the dark coffee shop, ordered, and sat down in a corner to continue their discussion quietly.

"So, since she got shot at, she's been hit by a truck and now overdosed with morphine? All in twenty-four hours or so?" He shook his head wonderingly, "And I thought the country was a peaceful place."

He grinned when her whipped cream confection showed up.

"You call that coffee? Looks like dessert to me," he joked.

"Hmm. Sometimes, your entire caloric intake for the day should be caffeinated and liquid!" She licked the whipped cream, then took a quick sip of the hot drink.

Flack's eyes never left her mouth.

"So," he went on, "Danny must be out of his mind."

"Haven't you heard from him?" she said, a little surprised.

"A text message before he left, one when he got to Montana, nothing since." Don admitted. Guys didn't get hurt when their friends ignored them, he assured himself. He was just concerned, that was all.

"He didn't even phone Mac until this morning, and then it was mostly just to ask for help. He really is beside himself, but I can't blame him. Three attempts on Lindsay in one day – that's a bit excessive, don't you think?"

"Thank God this guy, whoever it is, isn't very good at what he's doing." Flack drank his own black coffee; the barista had nearly had a heart attack when he ordered, "Just a coffee, doll; whatever you got that tastes most coffee-like, okay?"

Stella sat up. "I don't know, Don. So far, he's just grabbed his chance; he couldn't have known Lindsay was going to go riding, for example, or when. She had no routine; in fact, her mother told Danny it was the first time she'd had a chance to go out. Same with hitting her on the street; she wasn't going anywhere in particular, just walking off a mad, from what her mother said. And she'd been surrounded by people in her room up until the few minutes she was alone and her drip was opened."

Don nodded thoughtfully as Stella took another sip of coffee, running her tongue around her lips to be sure no whipped cream was left. She looked up to see him watching her again, and immediately blushed.

"What was that?" she thought in panic. "This is Don; we've been friends for years."

She cleared her throat and went on, "Every time, this guy has taken a chance, and so far, every time he's only failed because of coincidence. Linds saw the light shining off the rifle barrel and took off. She saw the truck and jumped out of the way. Danny came back too quickly and realized she was ODing, and the doctor was there to deal with it right away. All just luck."

Don nodded again, "Is Danny right, do you think? Could it be this cop? What is it, McKim?"

Stella sighed, "Danny is jealous of him, so I don't know how much that comes into play."

"Danny told you he was jealous of McKim?" Don blinked in surprise, "Not really a level of awareness I would have expected from Messer!"

Stella laughed, "No way. I doubt he'd admit it if we tied him up and tortured him! But he is, anyway; his voice changes every time he mentions him."

"I wonder how Lindsay will take that."

"What do you mean? Women don't always object to jealousy, you know."

Don quirked a disbelieving eyebrow at her, "Far be it from me to argue with a woman about women, Stella, but in my experience, a jealous guy is always at a disadvantage."

He took another drink and stared into space for a moment, then grinned at Stella again, "Of course, guys in just about any state are at a disadvantage when it comes to women!"

Stella laughed back, "Oh, the poor little guys! It must be awful to be so tormented by women!"

She blushed again when he looked at her and softly said, "Not always awful."

He grabbed his coffee cup and swigged the remainder. "You done?"

Stella emptied her cup as well, "Yeah, I gotta get back." She gathered up her things as Don put the cups on the counter, talking pleasantly to the young girl behind the counter for a moment before swinging back to smile at her and help her on with her coat.

"Come on, I'll walk you back. I need to get my car."

They talked as they walked the few blocks back to the station, Stella filling him in on the purse-snatching case, and Don offering advice and some rough comfort, "I know it's hard to see, Stella. Did you tell the social worker?" At her nod, he sighed and said, "Then you have to leave it to the system. It sucks, but it's all we got."

When they got to the station, she walked around to the parking lot with Don, a little reluctant to say goodbye. These moments they snatched together outside of the job were becoming strangely important to her. She refused to consider why that might be.

She leaned up against the passenger side of his car as he fished out his keys. "See you later, then."

Don moved closer, putting his hands on the car, one on either side of her, so she was suddenly surrounded by him, although he didn't touch her.

"Stella," his voice was soft and a little rough. "You know what you told Danny?"

Stella shook her head, uncertainly.

"That sometimes, under certain conditions, with the right person …" he paused, and licked his lips.

"Damn, did he memorize that?" Stella thought, caught somewhere between a giggle and a moan.

"That a woman might not mind being – overwhelmed?" he finished, his eyes dark and unreadable.

"Mmm?" She really couldn't come up with anything more coherent than that.

"I just wanted you to know …" he spoke even more quietly, his eyes never leaving her mouth, "Some guys are … overwhelmed …"

He moved a little closer and kissed her lingeringly on the cheek, then stepped away and around the car, opening his door before looking up at her with glittering eyes and a shit-eating grin, "By taking things very slow."


	34. Chapter 34: All Aboard

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Wow, some of you are thinking more about this case than I am! I'm happy to keep you busy. Thanks as always to the people who read (and I hope enjoy) and the people who respond. More case to come, along with more angst (you knew that), more friendship, more family, and more loving! _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 34: All Aboard

_And our friends are all on board_

_Many more of them live next door_

_And the band begins to play_

Don drove away laughing at the stunned look on Stella's face. After months of mooning around wondering how to get her to notice him as anything but a co-worker and a friend, he had decided to change his tactics. If that blush on her face was anything to go by, it looked like the campaign may pay off.

He warned himself against speeding things up, though. He had sat with Stella after Frankie's shooting, patiently going over and over the events that led up to her taking a gun and shooting her boyfriend three times, until they were both clear on what had happened and why. All the time he had observed as a police officer, and soothed as a friend, he had battled with the rage inside him which begged for nothing more than the power to resurrect the asshole who had hurt Stella so that he could have the pleasure of killing him all over again in various painful and crippling ways.

The agony of trying to hide that anger was still with him. He was afraid no one would understand it. Hell, he didn't understand it. He heard stories like Stella's every day, often ones which were worse, and although every story touched him, only Stella's experience had stayed with him that way, even following him into sleep. He still woke up some nights, choking from the dust and debris of the building that had blown up around him, the healed scar on his abdomen burning, but filled with rage at the sight of Stella's bruised face and shattered eyes hovering in front of him.

He shifted a little uncomfortably in the driver's seat of his car. He may have already blown it with Stella. She hadn't been out with anyone since Frankie. She clung to Mac, in spite of his relationship with Peyton, which though not widely advertised, was known to the team. She also spent a lot of time with Sheldon Hawkes, whose gentle, undemanding nature seemed to soothe her.

Don scowled. It was hard to imagine hating the doc, but he was beginning to come around to the idea.

He parked the car in front of the building holding his tiny apartment, a sixth floor walk up. That had been too much when he got out of the hospital; he had had to go stay with his parents until he was able to manage it again. The best day of his recovery was the day he had finally pulled his weary body up all six flights of stairs and fallen asleep in his own Lazy-Boy recliner in front of his own flat screen TV, watching the Rangers. That day had been like graduating, losing his virginity, and getting that first promotion, all rolled into one.

He glanced over at his phone, and saw the blinking light that said he had messages. Probably work: he sighed, but dutifully pressed the button as he pulled off the suit jacket and tie he wore to work and unbuttoned the dress shirt, letting it hang open as he moved towards his bedroom.

"Flack, where the hell are you? Don't tell me you're pulling doubles again. Get some of those other lazy bastards to do something once in a while, would ya?"

Don jumped back across the room; the voice was barely recognizable as Danny's. It went on, "Phone this number when you get a chance, 'kay? I need your help with something. Don't worry, I won't ask you to leave the city. One of us knee deep in cow shit is probably enough. I don't think Montana could take two of us out here."

There was a pause as Danny read off a phone number slowly, which Don wrote down on a pad he kept by the phone for case notes. "It's a two hour time difference, so don't worry about when you call if it's night." Danny's voice faded, then came back, intense but so tired Don ached for him. "Call me, okay?"

Checking the time, Don grabbed the phone and dialed the number, praying that he would get Danny and not some member of Lindsay's family. The phone rang once, twice, then voice mail kicked in, "The person you are calling is not available. Please leave a message at the tone."

"Danny, call me back at home as soon …" Don was half-way through the words, when the phone was picked up.

"Flack! Thanks for calling, man. I need you to do something for me."

"Anything you want, Danno, but for a price." Don tried to keep his voice light, but he could feel the anxiety tying his stomach in knots.

"What's the price?"

"Tell me everything that's happened since you got to Montana."

Danny laughed a little bitterly, "Don't want much, do you? Okay, here're the highlights."

Quickly he ran through Lindsay's hit-and-run, the morphine overdose, and the missing evidence. "I have Sheldon running John McKim."

"That's Lindsay's old partner?" Don was writing notes as Danny talked –occupational hazard.

"Think he'd like a more permanent position. He's all over her."

"That why you don't trust him, or is there more?"

Danny sighed, "Naw, there's more. He grew up with the Monroes, so he would know things like the trail they cut last year through the woods from her brother's place to her parents'. He'd have known where to go in, and he'd have known where the horses were kept. So that puts him in the frame for the shooting."

"Along with about a million other people."

"Yeah. The truck that hit Lindsay? She says it was a green domestic half-ton. She also identified the tire tracks at the trail as being from a domestic half-ton. Problem is that nearly everyone in town drives a half-ton, I haven't seen an import anything yet, and about half of them are green." Danny was frustrated, and Don could picture him rubbing the back of his neck, trying to ease some of the tension.

"And does McKim own a green domestic half-ton?"

"Not registered. But like I said, he could have borrowed or boosted one from just about anywhere."

Don looked over his notes. "So far, then, there's really nothing to tie him in. What about the OD?"

Danny went through the sequence of events with Don, as if re-telling it could reduce some of the horror. "So, any one of the three cops in the room could have gone back in and opened the drip – it wouldn't take any special knowledge. John Monroe dusted the IV apparatus; there were no prints. Dead end. A' course, doesn't have to be one of them. Olafsen still hasn't put any cops on Lindsay's door, so her room is pretty open. I got the doctor, Chris Martens, and the nurses doing double duty as security detail. Her brothers Jamie and Mick are going to spend tonight in her room, too."

"What about the missing evidence? The shell casings, Lindsay's clothes?"

"Again, anyone could be involved. McKim, certainly, although he's uniform. It's a pretty open station – small-town like, you know – easy to get in and out. Evans is the detective in charge of the Forbes case overall – Lindsay thinks he may have been on the original scene, even though he hasn't said anything to her. He doesn't like her, and hates me. Olafsen – he's the sheriff and he seems like a decent guy. Don't know whether he's any good at the job, but he's damn good at keeping the job; it would take a major revolution to get him out. Lindsay says he came long after the original school shooting, about 2000, maybe. So he has no direct involvement with the original case."

"He may be protecting someone now, though."

"That's the problem. We could be looking for the original shooter, we could be looking for someone involved in covering up poor police work in '95, we could be looking for someone who is covering up present poor work …"

"Or you could be looking at someone after Lindsay herself, outside of the original shooting at all." Don suggested that tentatively, and Danny's utter silence told him the thought had not occurred to him before this.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit."

"Sorry, man."

Danny sighed, "No, you're right. It is possible, I guess, and it could make things much harder."

Don thought of something, "Why didn't anyone go after Lindsay in the first place, when she came back to Bozeman as a CSI a couple of years ago?"

"I guess she wasn't a threat as long as Forbes hadn't remembered anything about the shooting. The second shooter seems to have felt secure as long as all the focus was on Forbes."

Don nodded, "Uh-huh, I can see that. Lindsay being called back to testify was the catalyst, triggered the anxiety. Now he's made it obvious that she is a target."

"Right. He's opportunistic: quick to take a chance, like the morphine, but he's patient when he needs to be, like the shooting. He could have waited there for several hours, or gone in more than once."

Don doodled on his pad for a moment, thinking his way through the case. There was nothing to hold onto, that was the problem, and not knowing the people involved meant that he was blind here.

"What about her brother, John? Stella told me he's a Fed – how's that going?"

"Okay. He's a pretty good guy, actually. We found the bullet in the field – I went out with Jamie and Mick, her other brothers, this afternoon. John is sending it to Mac to be analysed – I don't trust the Bozeman lab any more. At least we'll have striations to match …"

"If he shoots at someone again." Don finished the sentence grimly.

"Oh, you're a big help to me here, Flack," Danny said, aggravated.

"Sorry, Danny."

Danny sighed again, "Naw, I'm sorry man. I don't mean to take it out on you. I just hate this, you know?"

"So how is Lindsay doing?" Flack asked, hoping to cheer him up.

"She's hardly awake long enough to find out. Every time she wakes up, I have to explain why I'm here all over again. It's like she forgets me."

Don couldn't stand the lost tone in Danny's voice, "Or maybe she just can't believe that you're really there?"

A moment's silence on the other end of the phone, then Danny said gruffly, "Yeah, maybe. Thanks."

Don cleared his throat. "Look, Danny, is there anything I can do?"

"Yeah – I've emailed Mac all Lindsay's crime scene photos. He was right; her camera was in her bedroom. I know you guys have cases and stuff, but if you could look them over with Hawkes and Stella, Mac too if he has time. I know it's asking a lot…"

"You know you don't have to ask. We want you both back here. I got a bet or three riding on how things go from here on in." Don's voice was deliberately teasing, hoping to get Danny riled up to something like normal.

"Don't tell me – I don't even want to know about it." Danny just sounded tired.

Shit. A Danny who couldn't get fired up over his love life being bet on was in a bad way.

"Look, Flack, I gotta go. I don't know when I'll be in touch with you again. I'll try before we take off. Leave messages on this cell – I picked up a couple of disposables so they can't be traced. You and Mac are the only ones with this number – no one from Montana has it. I hope I can find service somewhere close. We're disappearing as soon as Linds is stable."

"Danny, be careful. Take care of her," Don said, and thought, "And yourself, bud."

"I will. Don't worry. Just – take a look at the evidence she collected, okay? I sent her whole case file too from her computer. Somewhere, somehow, there has to be something that will help us figure this out. She'll never be safe until this is finished."

Don promised again, and listened to the dial tone for a few minutes after Danny had hung up. He got up and finished changing into a sweatshirt and jeans, wandered around his apartment for a few minutes, thinking about food, then decisively grabbed his phone and hit speed dial.

"Hey, just heard from Danny. You got a little time to help me out?"


	35. Chapter 35: This Love of Mine

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: I do have the greatest reviewers in the world. Keep your ideas coming – every message helps me make this work a little better. Thanks to all those who are just reading too; I can hear you out there, and it is comforting!_

_Here's just a tiny taste of things to come. _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 35: This Love of Mine

_Bright are the stars that shine,_

_Dark is the sky,_

_I know this love of mine,_

_Will never die,_

_And I love her._

_A few hours earlier:_

Danny read out the disposable cell phone number slowly. "It's a two hour time difference, so don't worry about when you call if it's night." Danny paused to clear his throat. "Call me, okay?"

He hung up after leaving the message on Flack's phone. He hadn't spoken to him since before he left for Montana, and he needed to talk things through with someone who understood his language.

Danny hadn't thought twice about jumping on a plane to be with Lindsay when Diane had told him she was in the hospital. Now that he was here in Montana, far from home and all his support systems, he felt as if he had lost his balance.

Everything was a little too much: too big landscape-wise, too claustrophobic people-wise. He wasn't used to families like the Monroes; the parents at least had accepted him without question or reservation. They hadn't asked him any questions about his family or what they did: the first questions which would be asked in the Messer family, sometimes before a person was allowed to cross his father's threshold.

After meeting John in the early hours of the morning, Danny was introduced at breakfast to the two brothers who both lived in Montana: Jamie who lived on the ranch across the highway from his parents, and Mick who was a farrier in Butte, and traveled all over the West shoeing horses, especially at rodeos.

As a kid going to South Beach Park with his uncles to the bocce courts, Danny had sometimes wandered over to the horseshoe pitch and watched with bemusement. He had never connected the half-circles of iron with the clopping sound of horses' hooves in Central Park. He had certainly never thought about the men and women who turned iron bars into something that could protect a horse's surprisingly delicate hooves. One thing he knew for sure now, though: farriers were strong, and in Mick's case, at least, big. Mick's hand had completely enclosed his when they shook hands.

Jamie, like Lindsay, looked more like his mother than Ted; shorter than his younger brothers by nearly three inches, he was still taller than Danny by nearly the same amount. Both Jamie and Mick, like Ted, had the tanned leathery skin of outdoorsmen, with eyes sunk deep into sun-wrinkled faces. Both wore their ballcaps everywhere, even into the hospital room to kiss Lindsay and assure her in deep voices that they were going to make sure nothing got past them. They both called her "Peanut," which made her roll her eyes.

Danny didn't know whether to be flattered or worried that both men gave him the same look John had earlier: a promise, not a threat, of unspeakable violence should he be the one causing Lindsay any pain.

Lindsay introduced them both to Danny, a kind of bemused wonder in her voice when she told them he had come from New York to help her. All three brothers seemed to think it natural that anyone who knew Lindsay would be prepared to go to nearly any lengths to keep her safe. Thinking about Team Taylor's off-the-clock work on her case, Danny couldn't fault their assumption.

Danny sighed as he went back into Lindsay's room where her brothers were waiting. At least Lindsay was finally able to stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time, and would be able to participate in the upcoming planning session.

Jamie and Mick had taken Danny back out to the ranch to search for the bullet which had so narrowly missed Lindsay. Projecting the bullet's path had been difficult, as the shooter had had her in his shot for several minutes, but Jamie called in his young sons and some of their friends to help in the search. He had also been able to find the point at which Dusty had taken off; Danny could see the difference in the depth and distance of the hoof-prints, so they had concentrated on looking past that area. Jamie had been the one to find the bullet, dug slightly into the hard ground, but remarkably undamaged.

"Hey Danny. Did you get in touch with Don?" Lindsay's eyes were a little blurred; she was still buzzed on pain meds, although Chris had taken her off the morphine. She looked pale and ill, and Danny kissed her cheek as his heart twisted inside. He should have protected her.

"Had to leave him a message. He'll call back," he told her quietly.

"So, Messer, you want to lead this de-brief?" John Monroe was watching them carefully, as always, leaning against a wall, hands negligently in his pockets. Unlike his brothers in jeans and t-shirts, he was dressed in dress slacks and a button-down shirt, although he had left the tie at home. He had rolled the sleeves of his shirt up though, and looked every inch the professional he was.

"I talked to our team in New York, and got some direction from Mac Taylor," Danny started. After going through the case as he understood it, and explaining to the Monroe brothers what investigative steps the New York team was recommending, Danny told Lindsay about the Great Bullet Hunt and finished up, "At least now that we have the bullet, we can get some of the same information as we would have from the missing casings, including striations if we find a weapon to match it to."

Lindsay interrupted, "I did not lose those casings, Danny. Olafsen told one of the techs – Ross? I always want to call him Adam, for some reason – to pick them up off the table. When I packed up all the evidence in the box to give to Jeffers, those casings were not there."

Danny squeezed her hand, "Of course you did, Montana. We all know you wouldn't lose evidence. Mac nearly laughed at the thought."

Lindsay grinned at Danny's reference to Mac's notoriously solemn demeanour at work, then looked at her brothers, who were all smirking. "What?"

"Montana?" Mick said quietly. "You can take the girl out of the country …"

"Okay, you all get one minute to laugh. Then I don't ever want to hear another word about it, got that?" Lindsay had her mother's "rattlesnake" voice down pat, and laughed when the boys all cringed.

"You do know you've taken all the fun out of laughing at you, don't you?" Jamie asked.

Lindsay just sniffed and turned Danny's left wrist to look at his watch ostentatiously, "Fifteen seconds to go; oh, too bad! Time's up!"

Danny smothered a chuckle, then sobered up to continue laying out the case. "Lindsay, the Bozeman cops won't let me have any of your pictures or the evidence you collected at the scene. Mac and Hawkes could probably get more out it than you could with the equipment available to you here…"

"My camera is in my bedroom, Danny, along with my laptop. You should be able to download and send them without any trouble. The passwords are all the same as at work."

John's head came up at her casual dismissal of basic security, "Messer knows your passwords? Are you sure that's wise? No offense, Messer, but …" he faltered in the face of Lindsay's steely glare. Her hand was gripping Danny's tightly.

"I trust Danny with my life every day, John, just like you do with your partner. It wouldn't make much sense to trust him with my life and not with my passwords, would it?"

Wisely, Danny said nothing, although he wrapped his other hand over Lindsay's so hers was sandwiched between his. A little bitterly, he wished she had trusted him with her past as easily as she seemed to think she trusted him with her present.

"Uhh, I guess not. Still, what about private stuff? I don't know, like journals or something?"

"You have to give the guy credit for solid steel balls," Danny thought almost admiringly.

Lindsay stared straight at John, who was squirming a bit, "Danny, would you read my private files?" Her voice was confident.

"Absolutely." So was his.

She turned and stared at him with disbelief.

"If I thought there was something there that I needed to know to keep you safe, I wouldn't hesitate, Linds. You have to know that I would risk anything to keep you safe. Even break your trust, if I had to, much as I would hate to."

Lindsay may have been shooting daggers at him with her eyes, but all three brothers looked at him with approval.

"You guys are just as bad as McKim and Olafsen. They're constantly trying to keep me out if this too. Well, guess what, boys? I'm in it. Hell, I AM it! So don't go all protective male on me here, okay? I need to be involved."

"Being involved has got you nearly killed three times in one day, Lindsay," John pointed out, reasonably.

"And doing nothing won't change that now. This guy has decided that I know something he doesn't want me to talk about. He won't stop until I either spill it, or he kills me."

"Then we will all have to make sure you get a chance to remember, and put this bastard away," Diane's voice was quiet and somehow soothing as she shooed her sons away from Lindsay's bedside. "Now, you need to get some sleep, Lindsay, if tomorrow is going to work out the way Chris and your dad have planned it. Danny …"

"Is staying here," he broke in firmly.

"Is coming back to the house to eat and sleep," Diane corrected him equally firmly. "Or you aren't going to be able to play your part tomorrow either."

When Danny shook his head, Diane motioned to Mick, who wrapped one big hand around his arm and exerted pressure towards the door.

"Wait a minute! Can't we say goodnight first?" Lindsay asked, a little plaintively.

"Boys, give them a minute," Diane said, and turned back at the door, "I do mean a minute, Detective Messer."

"Yes, ma'am," he said submissively, and waited for the door to close before leaning over Lindsay and kissing her forehead gently. "You sleep good, okay, Montana? I need you sharp tomorrow."

"Danny," she whispered, "Say goodnight properly." She wrapped her good hand around the back of his neck and pulled him closer for a kiss, her eyes closing in anticipation.

He tried to keep it chaste and quick, but she was surprisingly strong, and opened her mouth to him with a breathy little moan that nearly did him in. His arms, braced on either side of her, started shaking as he concentrated on not deepening the kiss, on not simply taking things to the next level, on not just dropping into the bed with her and losing himself in her sweet heat.

"Christ, woman," he whispered hoarsely as they finally came up for air. "There are three very big men out in the hall who are going to kill me for that."

She grinned, and pulled him close for a second kiss, this time adding a flicker of tongue and a throaty giggle.

When she let him go, his eyes were closed, and he looked a little dazed, "Of course, you could just kill me first – one more like that oughta do it."

Lindsay laughed, low and wicked, and started to oblige, when someone knocked gently on the door to the room as it opened. Instead of Diane smiling sympathetically, as Danny half hoped, Special Agent John Monroe stepped into the room, face stern and arms folded across his chest.

"Time to move out, Messer."

Lindsay stuck her tongue out at her older brother, and deliberately pulled Danny close for one more kiss, although she thoughtfully turned down the heat on it a little.

John walked into the room and put his hand on Danny's shoulder in a classic "come-along-with-me" move, directing him out of the room and into Diane's gentler hands. She took one look at Danny, who was a little stunned and a lot exhausted, and said gently, "Come along. Hot dinner and a warm bed, I think."

He fell asleep almost before she started the truck engine.


	36. Chapter 36: Nothing is Easy

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: As promised, more Monroes and more about the original case. Thanks to everyone who responds, either by reading or by letting me know what works, what doesn't, what's missing, and what's confusing! _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 36: Nothing is Easy

_Nothing you can know that isn't known._

_Nothing you can see that isn't shown._

_Nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be._

_It's easy._

He slept for the forty-five minutes it took to get out to the Monroe ranch, only rousing when the dogs greeted the arrival of family with a joyous outcry.

Two big German shepherds came gamboling over to Danny, begging for petting and sticking their wet noses in his hands and crotch. They didn't look very ferocious at first glance, but Danny caught a glimpse of their teeth and was glad that Diane had been there to vouch for him.

"They've been out patrolling since the shooting," Diane said casually, masking her worry. "They think they've died and gone to doggie heaven, chasing everything under the sun. At least, we should be warned if anyone comes around."

She took him into the big, open kitchen, fed him with soup and homemade bread, and showed him up to Jamie's old room, handing him clean towels out of the dryer to carry up with him. He grabbed his overnight bag and followed her up the stairs.

Before he could try out the bed she had made up for him, though, Flack phoned the cell number he had left him and they talked. Danny hung up first, a little worried he wouldn't be able to control his emotions much longer; Flack had known him a long time, and Danny refused to break down in front of him.

He stretched out on the bed after saying good night once more to Diane. He needed to sleep for a little while, before looking over the evidence Lindsay had collected again. Over thirteen years, she had accumulated a lot.

He had held his breath the first time he had examined her case file: she must have started only months after the original shooting. Her careful, school-girl writing had changed over time to the neat professional writing he recognized from the innumerable cases they had written up together, and the terms had become more technical as she learned more, but even in her original statement, he could hear her voice making precise observations and side comments about the people she came into contact with after the shooting.

Danny closed his eyes and tried to relax. He had talked to Mac, to Stella, to Flack, sending them everything he could find from Lindsay's computer files, including all the photos she had taken in the woods and pictures he took of the bullet Jamie had found when they did a sweep of the field earlier that day. John Monroe had the bullet in his possession; he was going to get it to Mac in the New York lab. Interagency co-operation had been achieved by simply ignoring official channels; neither man had bothered to inform their superiors that they were working together.

Danny put his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, his mind continuing to race through the protective measures he had put in place. He had set Lindsay up with the best watchdogs he could find: her brothers and father would be in her room all night until he could get back to her in the morning. Then he would give Bozeman's finest one last chance to not fuck things up before he took Lindsay under.

Just down the hall from the room he was sleeping in was Lindsay's bedroom. He knew it was hers because it smelled like her: vanilla and something citrusy. He wanted to sneak down the hall and sleep in her bed, surrounded by her scent, by her presence, but he closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and resisted temptation. Bad enough he was here under somewhat false pretenses: Lindsay's parents couldn't have greeted him so kindly had they known he had slept with their daughter. In the neighbourhood he had grown up in, that action was more likely to be met with baseball bats at midnight than homemade soup and bread and a bed for the night.

He deliberately slowed his breathing still more, trying to will sleep to come to him. The short sleep in the truck and the conversation with Flack seemed to have put him off his rhythm, though. His eyes were stuck open, and with a groan, he rolled out of bed and grabbed his laptop. If he couldn't sleep, he could at least get some work done.

Opening Lindsay's file, which he had downloaded onto his own computer, he started reading through her original statement about the shooting, looking for anything that didn't fit with the official statements or media reports he had read before. He scanned through her description of the day up until the shooting: eating lunch in the lab because they had a Science Club meeting, then going back to the lab for final period. She was on a Science Team, preparing for a state-wide competition, and the team was working on its entry.

Even couched in the careful, stilted language of the official statement, he could Lindsay's voice coming through.

"_I was in the lab with Patricia Collins, Laura Phillips, Mark Sorenson, and my boyfriend, Cameron Johnston. We were trying our experiment one more time: we were entering in the physics competition, so there were lots of variables we had to keep adjusting for. Mark and Laura were fooling around; they had just started going steady and were being pretty annoying, chasing each other around the room. Cameron was working across the table from me, and Tricia was beside me._

_I saw the door open, and someone walked into the room. I didn't know who it was at first. He was wearing a long black coat – I recognized it as a Drizabone – and carrying a rifle. His face was covered with a bandana."_

In Lindsay's careful adult writing, she had added the make and model of the rifle, referencing the appropriate police file. Danny smiled at her precision, but shook his head once again at the incomplete evidence collection at the crime scene.

"_He shouted out, "Down on the floor, all of you!" and I recognized Justin Forbes' voice. No, I didn't know him well. He was in my algebra and history classes, and had tried out for the Science Team. He didn't make it; Laura beat him for the Alternate's position. His science was okay, but he was weak in math._

"_His voice was distinctive: it was quite high and breathy. He had asthma, and I could hear him wheezing._

"_We hit the floor, all of us. Laura and Mark were over by the door when Justin came in. He started walking around the room, pointing the rifle at us and yelling. He didn't really say anything but "Lie down! Shut up!" Laura was crying; Tricia had her hands over her head and was begging him not to shoot her. I heard a shot, and saw Tricia's body jerk. There was blood everywhere. I could smell it; it was on my clothes._

"_Everything happened really fast then. Justin yelled, and turned around. Laura and Mark were trying to get out the door. He shot Laura in the back. Mark screamed and tried to get to her. I heard another shot and he was on the ground. I don't know how many times he was shot: I heard the gun fire more than once. I was moving, trying to get away from Tricia's body. Cameron jumped up and tried to get in front of me. He was trying to push me out of the way, but I fell over a stool. Justin turned around and just shot him in the head. I grabbed him and tried to stop the bleeding, but there was so much blood, and … his skull was split open."_

"Witness broke down and was given some time to collect herself. Interview recommenced 6:22 pm."

Danny wondered where the statement had been taken; only three hours after the shooting, they must have come to Lindsay while she was still in the hospital. Not that he hadn't done the same thing countless times.

"_I looked at Justin; he was standing over me. No, I didn't see his face, just his eyes; he'd pulled the bandana up over his nose and the lower face of his face. Yes, like a bandit in one of those old Western movies. He stared at me and lifted the gun; then he said, "Bang." That's all I remember._

"_I came to when the police rushed the room. There was blood everywhere. Cameron was lying on me, his head in my lap. I was bleeding from a scalp wound; I don't know where it came from. The rest – they were all dead. Laura bled out before the paramedics got there; the others had died instantly._

"_Justin didn't really speak other than to tell us to get on the floor. After that, he just yelled – I couldn't really tell what he was saying. I think I heard him say, "Don't!" once, maybe when he shot Laura. The investigator, the one at the school? She told me the whole thing took less than 15 minutes." _

Danny closed the file, his hands shaking a little. Until now, he had neither realized that Lindsay had been involved with one of the dead students, nor that she had been so close to him when he was killed. Reluctantly, he turned over the crime scene photos she had acquired and put in her personal case file. There was Tricia, lying on her stomach, with a bullet hole in her centre back – the ME's report listed COD as exsanguination, but her heart had simply exploded in her chest when the bullet hit.

Laura had also been hit in the back, but not as clean a shot. She had been hit lower and had bled to death relatively slowly – a through and through which had perforated her lower abdomen. If she had received immediate help, she might have survived.

Mark had been shot several times, with fatal shots to the head and chest. When Danny looked at the more recent ballistics report Lindsay had charmed out of Brendan, one of the techs, he noticed that bullets from two different guns had been taken out of the body, a detail that, it seemed, had once more been overlooked.

And Cameron, the boyfriend, had died with his brains splattered all over Lindsay, trying to protect her. Danny retched as he looked at the photo; no wonder Lindsay had passed out.

He looked at Lindsay's crime scene photo last, examining the wound on her head. She could have fainted and hit her head as she went down. Or she could have been hit by the butt of a rifle; he looked at the picture as closely as he could, then made a note to get Sheldon to zoom in on the wound and see what he could figure out.

Danny looked through the rest of the photos: school pictures of the dead students; one of Justin Forbes, dark and ineffectually angry in his yearbook photo; a formal shot of Lindsay and Cameron, perhaps from prom. Cameron looked the prom king type. Actually, he looked a lot like John McKim: tall, blond, good-looking in a fresh, country kind of way. Another one of Lindsay, taken at the hearing, her eyes haunted and face wan, looking much younger than fifteen.

Danny looked at the picture in his hand, placed it carefully back in the box, and stood up restlessly. He paced around Jamie's room, picking up books and putting them down, puzzling over the ribbons for steer-wrestling and team-roping which covered one wall.

On near silent feet, he crossed the floor and opened the door, stopping to listen for Diane. He could hear her in the kitchen, running water as if to wash dishes; then he heard a rhythmic slapping sound, which he identified as the sound of an angry woman kneading bread. He moved across the hallway to the bathroom she had pointed out to him two hours ago, when they had both mistakenly thought he would go off to sleep easily.

He finished in the bathroom and came back out into the hall, stopping again to listen for Lindsay's mother. He stood for several moments by the bathroom door, trying to make up his mind.

When Diane came to check on him before going to her own room, she found him fast asleep on Lindsay's bed, curled up and shivering a bit in the cold room. She smiled, but with a catch in her breath, and pulled a quilt from the chair in the corner over him, before closing the door and going to bed to lie awake and worry.


	37. Chapter 37: A Day in the Life

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: As always thanks to those who review, and those who push me to think even further – I appreciate the impetus to take this deeper than I had planned. Of course, now you realize this fic may never end! _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 37: A Day in the Life

_Woke up, got out of bed_

_Dragged a comb across my head_

_Found my way downstairs and drank a cup_

_And looking up, I noticed I was late_

Danny opened his eyes slowly, praying that his senses were mistaken, that it wasn't Lindsay's scent he was surrounded by.

"Shit."

He closed his eyes against the sun pouring in through the pink flowered curtains, and pulled the quilt up over his shoulders reflexively, then stopped and looked down.

"Shit!"

He dropped his head wearily on the pillow. Lindsay's pillow. He was in Lindsay Monroe's bedroom, in her bed. In the Monroes' house.

"SHIT!!"

Not that in one way, this wasn't a dream come true. With his eyes closed, he could pretend for one minute that he belonged here, that Lindsay would climb in with him, surrounding him with the warmth that she seemed to exude, taking the kisses she had pressed on him before he left her the night before one step further.

Except that Lindsay was not going to come walking in through the door. She was lying in a hospital bed nearly an hour away in Bozeman, trying to recover as quickly as possible from a hit and run, then a drug overdose. Someone really wanted to make sure she didn't remember whatever it was she had forgotten or ignored all those years ago.

And her mother or father were likely to walk in, particularly if one of them went looking for him in Jamie's room, where Diane had graciously made up a bed and invited him to stay. He groaned.

"Nice way to repay a kindness, Messer." The voice was back: that relentless, badgering voice that had been keeping him awake and uncertain for days – for years – now.

"Maybe you should check the bed for biologicals before you sneak out. Wouldn't that be a nice welcome home for the girl? I wonder if her parents know what you did to her?"

"Shut up." Danny muttered it under his breath, knowing that talking to one's self was the first step, but actually answering the voices was a long way down the road to madness.

He looked around the room, seeing pictures of Lindsay and packs of giggling girls on one wall, surrounding a signed poster of Shania Twain. There was a huge team picture alone on one wall; looking at it more closely, he realized that it needed to be huge. It was a picture of an equestrian drill team, and Lindsay was in the centre, sitting on a large gray horse, carrying a flag and smiling her trade-mark Big Sky Country smile. Another wall was covered in ribbons and belt buckles. When he looked at them more closely, he saw most of them were for barrel-racing.

His brow wrinkled in confusion; then he shrugged and turned to look at her bookshelf. There was a whole row of tightly-packed paperback mystery novels, mostly British ones from the 30s and 40s, obviously well-read. There was another shelf of police procedurals, some British and some American, many of which actually had slips of paper in them; Danny pulled one off the shelf and opened the book at the marker. On the page was a description of a test for arsenic. Lindsay had written corrections regarding proper procedure in the margin.

He grinned and put the book back where it belonged.

On the bottom shelf, he found her high school yearbook from 1995. It was pushed back into a corner, and when Danny picked it up, it looked like it had never been opened. There were no autographs on the pages, no little notes from girlfriends about embarrassing moments, no teasing or flirtatious comments from wanna-be boyfriends. He flipped through to the M's section, and found Lindsay, warm smile glowing on the page, then flipped beyond to some pages outlined in black.

The title was "In God's Hands" and it was a memorial page. Eight of Lindsay's schoolmates had died that year: four in car accidents, and the four killed by Justin Forbes. Danny stared into the eyes of Cameron, Lindsay's high school sweetheart, and said under his breath. "Thanks for trying to keep her safe, man. I'll take over from here."

He tidied the room as best he could, folding the quilt and putting it back on the chair where he had noticed it last night. He knew that he had laid down – "Just for a minute" – without any covers, so Diane knew he had slept in Lindsay's room, in her bed.

Carefully, carrying Lindsay's yearbook, he opened the door and snuck back to Jamie's room, feeling like a teenager.

"Huh! When you were a teenager, Messer, you'd have gone out through the window, and you wouldn't 'a been alone in the bed!" That voice again.

Quickly, he showered and changed into the only other set of clothes he had. He was going to have to do something about that; Diane had already put together a bag for Lindsay, but he had come out to Montana with nothing but the overnight bag he took on cases. Damn. Shopping had to be on his list of "most boring activities devised by mankind" but at least in New York he knew where to go.

He looked at himself in the mirror, steeling himself for the confrontation he was sure he would be having with Diane and, if he wasn't mistaken, Ted, whose truck had pulled into the driveway when Danny was in the shower.

"Okay, take it like a man. He's got the right." In spite of the pep talk, Danny flinched when he heard Diane's voice at the bottom of the stairs.

"Danny, do you want some breakfast?" she called up.

"The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast of crow and humble pie before being put to death," Danny thought morbidly.

He ran down the stairs lightly. In spite of everything, he felt better for having slept, and no matter what problems Lindsay's parents may have with him, he had woken up still feeling her kisses on his mouth. He would be with her again; keeping her safe would become his sole responsibility.

"Yeah, you're a champ," the voice spoke again, stopping him dead at the bottom of the stairs. "You didn't stop someone from opening her drip, did you? As if you aren't the person most likely to hurt her, anyway."

When Diane came around the corner to see what was keeping Danny, she saw him clinging to the banister, eyes closed as if in pain, face pale.

"Danny, are you all right?" She put an arm around him and helped him sit down on the bottom stair.

"Yeah. Yeah, a'course. I just – guess I'm just hungry." Danny shook his head. That had been weird. He had almost felt the world move under him.

Diane helped him up with a gentle hand, and led him to the kitchen, anything she had planned to say earlier driven out of her head. She sat him down and put a plate covered in scrambled eggs, back bacon, home-cured sausages, toast, and fried potatoes in front of him. A cup of coffee sat at his place, along with a glass of orange juice and another of milk, while a basket full of home made biscuits covered by a cloth was in the middle of the table. He looked up at her, a little stunned.

"Is it enough?" she asked worriedly. "I could fry you up some steak, if you like?"

Ted laughed at the look of absolute panic on Danny's face at the thought of any more food being added to the mountain in front of him. "Let him get on the outside of that lot first, woman, before you worry about adding to it. Tuck in boy; that's a working man's breakfast, that is."

"That's a coronary waiting to happen," Danny thought in alarm. "Perhaps this is how they're going to get their revenge: feed me to death!" He took a tentative bite of the eggs, and nearly moaned at they melted on his tongue. Diane must cook daily with more butter than Danny had used in his entire life, but suddenly cholesterol was a four-letter word, and Danny 'tucked in' with a vengeance.

He looked up about halfway through cleaning his plate with some embarrassment as he realized he hadn't yet said a word to his hosts.

Diane was already washing dishes, but nodded approvingly. "Finish eating, and then we'll talk."

Danny smiled at her, but turned to Ted, "How is Lindsay this morning?"

Ted sat back, looking into the coffee cup in his hand as if it were a crystal ball, "She slept through the night for the most part. Kept waking up with nightmares though. Chris says that was partly pain; the stuff she's on isn't quite strong enough to control it, but he didn't dare give her more after the overdose." He rubbed his hand over his face. "She never complained though," he continued, his voice low. "Just chipped at John about corruption in the FBI, and told Jamie not to plant wheat in the corner field, and told Mick to marry Joanna and get on with things."

Diane snorted with laughter as she wiped down the counters, "Minding her own business, hey? That girl! She promised no fighting with John!"

Ted grabbed Diane's hand as she passed and pulled her into the chair beside him. "To give her credit, Di, he did start it by asking what a girl like her was doing in New York City." He glanced at Danny, and Danny's heart sank. Here it came.

"She's a good officer, sir. One of the best in the lab, and fearless in the field. Sometimes a little too fearless." Danny knew that she had not told her family about the undercover operation, and he burned to let them know that she had saved a young girl's life at great risk to her own. But it was not his story to tell.

Ted sighed, "You can't tell me anything about her bravery, son. But I would like you to tell us a little something about your relationship with her."

"Ted," Diane sighed, shaking her head.

Danny could hear Stella's voice in his head, "Lindsay told her mother she was a more than willing participant." Diane definitely knew about them; hell, she probably knew more about them than Danny did, if Lindsay had talked to her.

"I'm sorry, Diane, I know you wanted me to stay out of it, but if I'm going to let this man take off with my daughter, I think I have a right to know something about his feelings for her." Ted's quiet voice was determined, and Danny could hear echoes of John's FBI voice.

He pushed away his now empty plate and took a drink of milk to settle his stomach. Then he looked up, leaning against the table, matching the steady stare of Ted's gray eyes with his own.

"I can only tell you my side of this, sir. Lindsay is my partner. Every day at work I put my life in her hands, and she does the same with me. I made a commitment to protect her life with my own the day I first went out on the job with her." He sighed and looked down at his hands, tightly wrapped around each other. "Aside from the job, though, I care for Lindsay very deeply. I wouldn't hesitate to do anything I had to in order to keep her safe."

"What about happy?" Diane sat forward, looking at him intently. "What would you do to make her happy?"

"I don't know. We haven't had a chance to talk about what would make her happy." Danny could see that this answer had not satisfied either of Lindsay's parents. He shook his head and tried again.

"Look, I can't explain this properly, and I'm not sure if I am being fair to Lindsay by even trying. When she left New York the first time," Danny swallowed hard and looked out the window, " I was prepared to let her go if that's what she needed to do."

His eyes dropped to his hands again, knuckles white and fingers strained. "Then she came back. And I realized that letting her go was not going to be an option again."

He looked at Lindsay's mother, haunted eyes begging her to understand. "So if she could only be happy by not being with me, I don't know if I could do that."


	38. Chapter 38: Suddenly I See You

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks as always to the people who review – I am amazed by the time you offer me. Every comment asks me to think more seriously about what I am doing, and makes the story better than I could have done on my own._

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 38: Suddenly I See You

_I was alone, I took a ride_

_I didn't know what I would find there_

_Another road where maybe I_

_Could see another kind of mind there_

There was silence in the big ranch kitchen when Danny's voice stopped. He looked down at his hands again for a minute, then stood up and cleared his plate, putting it carefully into the sink. He didn't have the courage to look at Lindsay's parents again, so he stayed over by the sink, looking out the window at the dogs running after each other. In the distance, he could see fields and horses, with no other buildings in sight for miles. This is what his Montana had given up for a crowded, dirty, noisy city. What was he going to do if she decided she couldn't leave it again?

He didn't see Diane and Ted share one of those looks that only people who have spent years interpreting each other do. He didn't see Diane wipe tears from her eyes, or see an odd expression – half relieved, half pained – cross Ted's face.

The kitchen was silent for some minutes; then Diane pushed her chair away from the table and started clearing the rest of the dishes, moving up beside Danny at the sink. Danny tensed as he heard Ted stand up as well, clearing his throat as he did, and turned around slowly to face whatever was coming at him, steeled for a fist in the face.

"Look, son, I don't know if you two are going to be able to work out whatever has you tied up in knots. I do know my daughter, though. Once she decides what she wants, nothing gets in her way. Whatever happens, I stand with her." Ted looked Danny in the eye, and seemed satisfied by whatever he saw there.

"I wouldn't expect anything else, sir."

"Good. Then let's get on with getting her out of that deathtrap hospital and figuring out how to keep her safe for good, okay?"

A little stunned, Danny nodded as Ted walked out the back door, whistling for the dogs as he went to pack the truck with some of the supplies he and the boys had been collecting for Lindsay's hideout.

Danny leaned back against the counter, his breathing nearly back to normal. He lost it completely when Diane turned to him and hugged him hard.

"You two will work it out, Danny. I promise."

He couldn't help it. His arms went around her and he held on. He'd kept it all together: in front of Lindsay, in front of her brothers, in front of all the members of his New York team. He lost it now, a hot gush of tears running down his cheeks unchecked.

Diane held him, whispering soft comforting words until the emotion that had overwhelmed him was spent. Mother of three sons, she knew the right moment to step away and let him take control back. She plunged her hands back into the sink, and nodded towards the drawer in which the dishtowels were kept. "Grab a cloth and dry these dishes for me. Tell me what the plan is."

Danny turned away from her, pushing his glasses up to wipe his eyes with the backs of his hands, then doing as he was told and finding a cloth to dry the dishes. Within moments, he found himself stacking dry dishes on the counter and explaining to Diane the plan he had worked out with John and Dr. Chris, with input from a determined Lindsay whenever she could get a word in edge-wise.

"Do you think it will work?" Diane's voice was quiet.

"It has to," Danny's was determined. "We have to get her out of there. Too many people in and out, no way to control access, too many ways things to go wrong. Once we're out of the way, John and my guys in New York can concentrate on clearing up the original case, find out who the second shooter was. I'm hoping that will tell us for sure who is after her now."

Diane wiped down the counters once more, rinsed the sink out, and started putting away the dishes Danny had dried and stacked beside the sink. She said over her shoulder as she reached up to put away the dishes, "You think you know who it was, don't you?"

Danny hesitated before answering her. When she turned and glared at him, he had to laugh; Lindsay looked just like that when he questioned her reasoning or judgments. He decided to go roundabout on this one. "How close is Lindsay to John McKim?"

No good, he saw immediately: Diane dropped her hands to her hips and looked at him in honest confusion.

"They were partners for about six months when Lindsay finished at Montana State and came to work for the BPD. She wanted the street experience, but she moved into the lab pretty quickly. Why?"

"Wasn't he at school with her?" Danny tried to keep his voice casual, but one look at Diane's face told him he had failed.

"He's the same age as our John," she said slowly. "That means they were in the same school for about two years: Jamie was six, John four, and Mick two when Lindsay was born."

"So where was John when the shooting happened?" Danny bit his tongue; the things that were not in the file because "everyone knew that" were enough to make him scream. If McKim was four years older than Lindsay, he was probably out of the picture.

"Which one? Our John was at university, second year Criminology. McKim? I don't know. He left town after they graduated, I know that, disappeared for a few years. When he came back, he joined the BPD. He's been there for, what, eight years now?"

Diane fidgeted with the drying cloth she had taken from Danny to dry her hands. "Do you honestly think it could be John McKim, Danny? I'm pretty sure he wasn't even in town when the first incident happened."

Danny shrugged non-committally. "It has to be someone who has access to the lab, is in on the discussions around the original case. On the other hand, the person after her now may have no connection to the original case."

"Oh, God," Diane collapsed on the nearest chair, her knees just giving out as she put her head in her hands. "I can't stand this."

Danny knelt beside her, offering her comfort now. "It'll be okay. We're going to find him, I promise, and stop him for good this time."

"Do you know how long I've prayed for Justin Forbes to die of his injuries?" Diane's brown eyes, so like Lindsay's, were blurred with memory now. "I knelt in the church and begged God to just let him die. I wrote letters to the governor of the prison, asking him why they were continuing to medically intervene in Forbes' case. I just wanted it all to be over, so Lindsay could go on with her life without looking over her shoulder all the time. And now, I find out someone else has been walking around free all this time. Someone who shot two of those children. Someone who has been living for thirteen years as if it meant nothing, as if taking those lives, destroying poor Mary Sorenson's sanity, breaking up the Collins' marriage – none of that is his responsibility at all."

Danny was holding her hands in his, letting her vent. He could feel her anger like a blazing fire, and he wondered how she managed to hold all this in on a daily basis.

"Diane, I'm sorry for everything you have all gone through. But I promise you that we are going to end this. One way or another, this ordeal is going to end."

Diane Monroe wiped her eyes, and nodded her head. "I believe you. I do. It's just been a part of our life so long. Lindsay has carried this with her every day of her life."

"You all have," Danny thought, but just nodded in answer to her worried look. Out loud, he said, "We're going to help her get over this, okay? Or at least understand what happened."

He thought back to Lindsay's obsession with the mermaid case, actually going to the prison to ask the murderer again what had made him pick his victim. He remembered the haunted look in her eyes when she returned, the reason he had gone to Mac and ratted her out. He had been afraid even then there was something else going on; he wished now he had pushed her further. He might have been able to save both of them some heartache if he had.

Ted walked back into the kitchen. "You better get your stuff together. It'll be 8:00 before we're back in town."

Danny looked down at himself. "I don't have much to get together. I only brought my overnight bag. And Lindsay's case file; we'll need that."

Diane frowned. "You'll need warmer clothing, boots, gloves. I better see what I can find. The boys left some things here…" she bustled out of the room before Danny could point out he'd swim in anything that had fit Mick even as an infant.

He looked uneasily at Ted. He was still waiting for the shotgun to swing his way, and waiting made him nervous.

"Go on, get your stuff. You could have a long wait. Oh, Lindsay asked if you could bring her some books."

"Anything in particular?" Danny asked, as he turned to go back up the stairs.

"No, anything on the shelf in her bedroom, she said. You'll know which room is hers, I'm thinking." Ted's voice was perfectly neutral, but as Danny walked out of the kitchen, his face a little flushed, he could swear he heard a chuckle come from Lindsay's father.


	39. Chapter 39: I Want to Tell You

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Well, according to reviews, the last chapter made some of you cry. Let's see if this chapter makes you think. Opinions? Deductions? _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 39: I Want to Tell You

_I want to tell you_

_My head is filled with things to say_

_When you're here_

_All those words, they seem to slip away_

Flack had been waiting outside in his car for about fifteen minutes before Hawkes came running out of his apartment and tapped on the window. Flack unlocked the door and Hawkes got into the car, putting a computer bag in the back seat carefully, then rubbing his hands together.

"Pretty cold to be working off the clock," he remarked easily.

"Colder where Danny is. Temp could drop to the 30s out in the mountains, the news said. The spy who can't come in from the cold, you know? Did you call Stella?" Flack had argued with himself about whether to do that himself, or to get someone else to. In the end, he had decided to ask Hawkes to do it, to try and keep some things on a professional level.

"She's going to meet us there. Mac, too." Hawkes was still trying to warm his hands. "What's the betting Peyton will come with him?"

"Haven't you learned anything about sucker bets, Doc?" Flack grinned.

"It's nice to see Mac smile a little more," Hawkes said, easing back in the seat. He'd just gone off-shift when Flack called, but hadn't hesitated to come back in. This was Lindsay, after all.

"He deserves it," Flack said gruffly.

"Doesn't everyone," Hawkes put his head back and shut his eyes. Even this time of night, it would take several minutes to get to the station, and he might as well catch some Z-time before starting again.

Flack saw that Hawkes' eyes were closed and kept quiet, concentrating on getting safely and quickly to the station. Danny had said he had sent them all the information he could get his hands on, but there was more to come: the bullet the Monroes had dug carefully out of the frozen ground was being couriered to New York, and there were still statements and information neither Lindsay nor Danny had been able to get a hold of. John Monroe was supposed to get in touch with Mac after Danny and Lindsay were safely underground.

Flack chuckled a little at the thought of Danny shacking up with Lindsay, even temporarily, even under these circumstances. His buddy had been tied up in knots over this woman forever; he couldn't imagine how he was going to deal with being with her 24/7. A little "overwhelming" may be the best thing for both of them: burn it out of their systems.

"Hey, Doc. Here we are," Flack pulled into a parking space close to the doors, and saw Mac's sedan a few spaces over. "Mac's already here."

A dark figure detached itself from the wall near the door and came towards the car, moving a little slowly.

"So's Stella," Hawkes shot a look at Flack; he had his suspicions about the detective's feelings for her. Nothing to confirm those ideas here, though; Flack got out of the car and casually greeted the CSI the way he did every day.

"Hey, Stel. Glad you could make it. Everything okay?" His sharp eyes had noticed that she was biting her lip.

"What? Oh, yeah. Everything's fine. Let's go." She turned to smile at Hawkes. "You look like you could use some sleep."

"Had some." He yawned and pulled himself wearily out of the car.

"Could use some more, maybe?" Stella reached out and gave him a hand up.

"Naw, I'm fine. Let's go see what Danny's sent us." Hawkes turned to grab his computer from the back of Flack's car before gesturing for Stella to go ahead of him.

Flack had taken off up the stairs as soon as Stella had stopped to talk to Hawkes, and the two CSIs hurried to catch up to him. It was a silent ride up in the elevator, Hawkes blinking a little sleepily, Stella biting her lip, and Flack frowning a little. He had blown things; Stella kept avoiding his eyes. Shit.

"Oh well, if you never risk, you never get, right?" he tried to tell himself. "Thanks for playing: you lose. Move on."

He moved down the hallway when the elevator doors opened like a linebacker clearing a midfield. Stella and Hawkes were carried along in his wake, and the three swept into the conference room where Stella had begun an incident board the last time Danny had called. Mac was examining it, adding information from the file open on his computer, and Peyton was poring over the Bozeman ME's reports on the dead students.

Mac looked up with a quick smile, then returned to his board. "Grab a pen, Stella. I've uploaded the original case file Lindsay collected on the other computer over there. I thought we'd focus on the '95 case until we get more info from Agent Monroe. Do you want to take a look and see if we can map out the movements of the shooter?"

Flack moved in close to the board and started to go over the timeline, adding information Danny had given him during their late night phone call. Hawkes joined Peyton in looking at the autopsy reports. In no time, the team was working this case like any other, although there was a collective catching of breath when Mac printed off the picture of fifteen year old Lindsay at the scene. Her face was white, with the dark bruise blossoming evilly on her forehead. Her eyes were wide and stretched with a dull horror each investigator recognized: the blank stare of the traumatized victim.

Flack's lips tightened angrily. Stella and Peyton both turned their eyes away for a minute. Hawkes stared at the picture closely, looking at the bruising pattern especially, then uploaded the .jpg file to his own computer to see what he could find out about the injury.

Mac barely glanced at it. He had seen it before. He still saw a flash of it every time he sent Lindsay out to a scene. During the Darius case, he had been nearly blinded by it superimposed over the eager face of his newest recruit.

"Okay," Stella said as she opened a computer simulation programme. "The first one shot was Patricia Collins. Then Laura Phillips." Using the crime scene photos and sketches provided by the investigators, she first recreated the school's science lab, and then placed the bodies in the appropriate places.

"Any significance to it being two of the girls shot first?" Peyton wondered out loud.

"Not yet; we need more evidence," Mac explained.

Stella and Hawkes grinned at each other, and chorused, "Don't theorize ahead of the evidence."

Peyton looked at them in confusion, while Mac glared at the pair of them.

"From Chairman Mac's Little Red Book," Hawkes informed her, "Along with 'Give me evidence, not intuition'…"

"All right, all right, that's enough," Mac said hastily, as he could see everyone in the room was ready to jump in with another of his maxims. He had no idea he had become so predictable.

Flack looked over Stella's shoulder, careful not to get too close. "That ain't right. Linds said Forbes came in to the lab and was standing right over her. If she's right…"

Stella interrupted, "Even given the stress of the situation and the fear…"

"There's no way Forbes could have shot the Collins girl at that angle." Flack finished the thought. "So the second shooter must have been behind Lindsay in the beginning, and shot Patricia Collins as she lay on the floor." Begging for her life, he thought, as he read through the statement, and clenched his jaw against a wave of nausea.

"Okay, so let's assume the second shooter was over here," Stella placed an upright figure near the other door, an outdoor exit. "Does that mean he came in through this outside door?"

Mac looked over the schematics of the room. "Emergency door. It should have been alarmed."

"Which would be why no one looked at it – they assumed that it would have gone off if someone had gone in or out." Without thinking about it, Flack moved closer to the computer, and pointed over Stella's shoulder. "So Number 2 shoots first, killed Patricia Collins."

Stella pointed to Laura Phillips' body, "Laura and Mark were closer to the door in the first place. Why didn't Forbes shoot them first? Or why didn't they run out right away?"

"Third door." Mac pointed to the schematic again. "All the labs are built around a storage/prep room, with access through from one lab to another. Maybe Forbes came through that room. That would place him about here," he leaned over and pointed to a space about equidistant between the place the bodies had been found and the counter Lindsay had been in front of, "allowing him to cover both the room and the door."

"All right. So, all the kids hit the floor when told to: here, here, and two here," Flack indicated the locations of the bodies. "Number 2 shoots Tricia on the floor, killing her instantly."

"Do you think Forbes was originally targeting Laura Phillips? Because she was the one who replaced him on the team?" Stella wondered out loud.

"I think he swung around when the other rifle went off and shot at the first thing that moved," Mac said grimly.

"Wait a minute! Isn't that theorizing ahead of the evidence?" Peyton asked, confused.

"No," Mac told her patiently, "That's theorizing from the evidence."

Peyton shook her head, while Stella and Hawkes tried to hide their grins.

Ignoring the interruptions, Flack continued, "Then Mark Sorenson goes to Laura's aid, and …"

"Is shot by both rifles at once," Peyton supplied, going over to the computer and grabbing printed copies of the files. "Look. The autopsy report shows two bullets hitting at virtually the same time: head and back. No way to tell which was the kill shot. They didn't stop, though. He was hit at least two more times."

"Cameron goes to protect Lindsay," Stella's voice was low as she plotted Cameron's scrambled movement from behind the counter where he might have been safe to his deliberate placement in the line of fire. "Look, Forbes was blocked from shooting him by the counters. So was the second shooter, as long as he wasn't moving around too much. As long as she stayed there, Lindsay would have been out of Number 2's line of vision too." Stella showed the potential lines of fire from both shooters.

"So Forbes shoots Cameron in the head as he tries to push Lindsay out of the way …" Mac's voice was low and tight with loathing.

"And then Number 2 comes around the counter and hits Lindsay in the head with the butt of his rifle." Looking up from his computer screen, Hawkes completed the scenario. "I blew up the picture of Lindsay's injuries, and was able to get a pattern on the head injury. It's consistent with a rifle handle, but not a match to the rifle taken from Forbes after the police took him down."

"Forbes goes back out this door, to stage his suicide-by-cop," Mac followed the map.

"And Number 2 goes out the outside door, still without tripping the alarm," Flack added, "And shoots his partner in the back."

"Why? And why didn't they kill Lindsay?" Stella said under her breath. "Why was she the only one left alive?"

"Maybe Number 2 thought she was dead after he hit her?" Peyton speculated.

"But why not shoot her? They'd already shot four people. Why not her?" Mac held his frustration in, trying to make it work for him.

"They shot one in the back, two, three," Hawkes pointed to the screen. "Even Cameron was hit in the back of the head. Maybe they couldn't kill her …"

"Because she looked into their eyes." Stella breathed out.

"That means she saw him," Peyton said.

"That means she saw them," Flack said grimly.


	40. Chapter 40: All Your Life

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: As requested by some of you, a little more case, a little more Stella, a little more Flack. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about D/L! It's just that everyone wants a turn on stage!_

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 40: All Your Life

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night_

_Take these broken wings and learn to fly._

_All your life_

_You were only waiting for this moment to arise._

"So if Lindsay could identify both shooters, why didn't she?" Peyton asked logically.

"She says here that the one she saw was wearing a bandana over his face, like in a Western movie," Flack pointed out. "So she would have seen only eyes, maybe hair – which could be any colour at all. This happened fast…"

"According to the report files by Jeannette Turnbull, the investigator first on the scene, the one who processed Lindsay, Forbes was seen by a teacher entering the schoolyard at 3:10, when the final bell went. The first shots were heard at 3:12; the cops responded to 911 calls within 5 minutes; Forbes walked out into police fire at 3:29." Mac was flipping through the report, pulling information together.

"Where was that, Mac?" Stella quickly plotted into her simulation the schoolyard and the position of the police. "So Forbes had to have come out this door," she pointed to the classroom door that led to the lab prep room, "And through this hallway," a few taps on the keyboard and Stella had filled in the space between the classroom and the door to the courtyard, "Out this door where he's met by the police."

Dropping into a chair behind her, Flack leaned over her shoulder again to point at the computer screen, "So Number 2 goes back out through this outside door, around the corner of the building, and shoots his buddy in the back. Nice."

"But why?" Stella sat back in her chair, huffing in frustration, arms crossed and long fingers tapping on her arms. "Why would he try to kill his partner? The whole thing seemed to have been planned out. It certainly was efficient. Four dead in less than 15 minutes? I know SWAT teams that wouldn't work that fast."

Mac moved over to look at the diagram as well. "We can only help them with what happened, Stel. 'Why' is going to be someone else's job." He grinned at Stella's impatient little snort.

"And we are still missing too much information," Hawkes moved in as well to peer at the diagram. "Do we have a copy of Forbes' statement?"

"Just the original one, made after he had been operated on and was recovering in the hospital. It's not like they were too worried about catching the shooter – he ran right into them." Flack looked through the statement quickly, "Says here he was angry because they didn't pick him to be on the Science team; he was picked on and bullied through high school – no real surprise there. No mention anywhere of a partner, or of a plan. Just walked in, shot up the lab, walked out into the cops."

He scanned through another report that was clipped to the confession. "Hey, Mac?"

"Yeah?" Mac looked up from the screen.

"What's the name of the detective in charge in Bozeman? Evans?"

"Yeah, I think so. Yes, here it is – Carl Evans. How come?"

"He was on the scene in '95. Look, he was a Detective 3rd Grade. Must have been on the streets for a while before he moved out of uniform." Flack handed over the copy of Detective Evans' report to Mac.

"He says the suspect came running at the police cordon, yelling, with his gun pointed. The police opened fire to take him down."

Peyton had grabbed another medical report when Flack had mentioned Evans. "Forbes was shot five times: once in the left leg; twice on the right side – arm and shoulder; one hit him in the upper abdomen – some damage there, but mostly superficial. Fifth shot was the clincher: hit him in the spine, severing it. Well, there's no way any half decent ME could mistake that for a shot from the front!" She held up a photograph of the wound in Forbes' back. The wound pattern clearly showed that the flesh had been penetrated from the back, with an exit wound in the front.

"So, what did Evans have to say?" Stella held out a hand for the report.

"Pretty basic report from a peon," Flack said dismissively. "I only noticed because of the name."

"Wait a minute," Stella said. "He says he saw another person in a long black coat leave the scene."

"Where?" Flack sat forward and reached for the report.

"Here, just at the end of the report," she pointed it out to him.

"_Suspect was down on the ground and secured. Several members of the squad were deployed around the perimeter of the scene while the SWAT team entered the building to secure and assess the situation. As I was mobilizing in accordance with my superiors' orders…"_

"Cor, he don't half talk posh, do he?" Peyton interjected in her best Cockney accent, surprising a chuckle out of the rest of the team.

"_As I was mobilizing in accordance with my superiors' orders," _Flack went on with a bit of flair, _"I observed a figure moving behind the building which appeared to be an adolescent dressed in a long black coat, similar to the one worn by the suspect on the ground. Upon further investigation, however, the figure had disappeared. I proceeded to follow the orders of my captain."_

Flack's face registered his disapproval as he lowered the report. "So he went chasing after the glory shot instead of properly investigating a suspicious person? I wonder how he's got to where he is?"

"Be fair," Hawkes said, "Low-ranking, not sure of what he saw, following orders …"

"Wonder if he's ex-military? Could explain him following orders without question," Flack said.

"Run Evans when you run McKim, would you Hawkes? Let's find out where Bozeman is getting its officers," Mac said. "In fact, do a level one on everyone we have names for. Someone at that station is not right; let's see if we can find out who it is."

Hawkes nodded and made a note on his computer.

Stella had swung back to the computer diagram, "The second shooter only had to dump the coat and rifle and duck back into the building where he had come from to be completely invisible."

"What about blood? Wouldn't he be spattered as much as Justin Forbes?" Peyton objected. "When they processed his clothes, there were several different blood types. Not that they separated them out. Limited lab time and obvious suspect, I suppose."

"Probably not. If our plot is accurate at all, he would have been out of the spatter area for the most part." Stella pointed to the diagram.

"Besides, he had the coat to cover him. Dump the evidence and he'd have been safe enough, unless he transferred blood on his shoes or the leg of his trousers." Hawkes completed the thought.

Everyone sat for a few minutes looking at the diagram. There were still too many holes in the evidence to do much more tonight, but they were reluctant to just walk away. Illogical though it was, it felt like walking away from Lindsay and Danny, and so they stayed, arguing, discussing, examining the documents and evidence they had until Hawkes finally fell asleep in a chair.

"This is ridiculous," Stella said, stretching. "Don, are you going to send Danny what we've got so far?"

"I'll do that; I have Lindsay's parents' fax number," Mac said.

"Fax? On a farm?" Don's eyebrows rose.

"Modern ranching life, I guess," Mac shrugged. "Anyway, my shift starts in an hour, so I'll put this together and send it off first. You guys, go home." He looked over at Hawkes, who was, remarkably, still upright in the chair, though sound asleep. "I guess it's true, what they say about medical residents."

Peyton shot him a smile, "If you don't learn to sleep where you drop, you have to learn to give up sleep altogether. I'll take him home, if I can borrow your car. I'll come pick you up when your shift is over."

Mac handed her the keys, and pulled her close for a minute. Don and Stella quickly found something more interesting to look at in the file at the other end of the conference room, but Stella could see the couple sharing a kiss goodbye, and she stifled a quick sigh.

"Come on, Sheldon, let's get you home." Peyton put a hand under Hawkes' arm and he rose, following her without appearing to even open his eyes.

" 'Night, Peyton. 'Night, Hawkes," Stella said quietly, then turned to Mac. "You sure you okay to do this? I could stay and help."

"Take her home, Flack. Stel, you have the day off. Take it. I'll take care of them, I promise." Mac's normally stern look had been softened by his goodbye with Peyton, and Stella smiled to see him looking more relaxed and content than she had seen him for a long time.

"Come on, Stella. I'll walk you to your car," Flack said coolly.

"I didn't drive," Stella replied absently.

"Then I'll take you home," he said, holding the door open for her and waiting for her to say goodnight.

"Tell them we're thinking of them, would you, Mac? And that we aren't giving up. We'll do our best to figure this out for them. Promise them that, would you?" Stella wrung her hands, her eyes not leaving the picture of Lindsay which Mac had placed in the centre of the incident board, and which she had successfully avoided most of the night.

"Don't worry, Stella. Go, get some sleep," Mac's voice was soft, but the look he shot Don Flack was clear. "Get her home safely," it said.

Flack put an arm around her gently, "Let's go, Stel."

Subdued, she allowed him to lead her down the hall to the elevator. He tried to step away once they were traveling down, but she rested her head against his shoulder and sighed, and he froze, hardly daring to breathe, in case she realized how close to him she was, and moved.

She smelled clean, he thought. Not of any specific scent, just something clean, like laundry on a clothesline. He closed his eyes and tried not to tighten his arm around her, the way his body was screaming at him to do.

He moved them through the parking lot quickly – there was no such thing as a completely safe place in New York's night – and installed Stella in the front seat of the car. He got in the driver's side and turned on the heat as soon as the engine was on.

"It'll be warm in a minute," he offered quietly.

"I'm okay."

"You're shaking," he pointed out.

"That's rage. I am so angry with this person, whoever did this. I know it happened years ago, but the ripples – all the people affected." She shook her head, remembering her conversations with Diane Monroe. Now she fully understood the depth of Lindsay's mother's anger.

"We're going to help find him, Stel. And Danny, Lindsay, Agent Monroe: they all have good reason to find him too. Even the Bozeman cops – they'll need to find him as well. It's stayed quiet for a long time, but it can't stay quiet now." Don wanted to reach out and hold Stella's hand or rub her shoulder, anything to show her some support, but he didn't dare.

To his great surprise, she took his hand in hers and squeezed it. "You almost make me believe it."

"Trust me." Their hands remained clasped as he drove competently through the early morning streets.

He made it to her neighbourhood in under half an hour, and found a parking place only a few doors down from her apartment. He got out and opened her door for her, "Come on, Stella, home."

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Walking you to the door?"

"You are sweet, Don," she said with a smile.

"Ouch," he thought.

He walked with her up the block, and stopped at the door of her security-controlled apartment.

"Come up with me. I'll make you coffee," she offered.

"Umm, that's okay, Stella. I'll pick some up on my way home." He could not go up to her home right now.

"Mine's better. Please, Don? I need to talk to you. I was going to do this before we met with the rest of the team, but then you had Hawkes with you..."

"Shit. Here it comes. What's the betting on the 'not ready for a relationship' speech? Or could it be the ever-popular 'it's not you; it's me' speech?" Don thought with an inward groan. No help for it though; he knew Stella well enough to know she was not going to take no for an answer. He nodded a little glumly.

They didn't speak as they rode up in the elevator, or as they walked down the hallway, or as Stella unlocked the door to her apartment. She didn't say anything as she took his coat and hung it up beside hers in the closet. She didn't say anything when she took his hand and led him to the living room and offered him a seat on the couch.

And she didn't say anything when she sat down on his lap, wrapped her arms around his neck, and lay her mouth gently on his before deepening the kiss until his arms were tight around her, pulling her closer.

"Don," she whispered in his ear, when they broke the kiss for a breath.

"Yeah?" he mumbled, in delighted shock.

"Fuck going slow," and she swept him under again.


	41. Chapter 41: Don’t Let Me Down

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: As requested, some Stella/Flack action. I don't know what it is with me and the ringing of a phone – some deeply rooted issues, I'm sure! _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 41: Don't Let Me Down

_I'm in love for the first time_

_Don't you know it's going to last_

_It's a love that lasts forever_

_It's a love that has no past_

_Don't let me down_

He was drowning. He was dreaming. He was holding Stella in his arms and he was kissing her. Dazed and a little bewildered by how swiftly she had taken charge, he hardly knew how to react.

His body was having no trouble with the concept, though. In fact, the heat was rising a little too quickly for comfort, especially with Stella curled in his lap, a place which was swiftly running out of room for her. His hands came up and cupped her face, slowing the kiss until he could break away and rest his forehead on hers.

"Stella," his voice rasped as he struggled to gain control over himself at least, if not the situation.

She moved closer to him, and kissed him again. He gave in to her a moment, then tried again. "Stella, talk to me." He had to clear his throat to get his voice to work at all.

"I really don't want to talk," she said, sulkily.

He looked at her mouth, with her lower lip pouting, just begging for a kiss, and with a strangled groan he sank back into her, nipping her lip with his teeth, then soothing the sting with his tongue. "Talk to me," he whispered again.

"You said you wanted to …" she stopped and a flush washed over her face. "Don, I'm sorry. I thought …" She struggled to get out his arms, turning her face away in chagrin.

He locked his arms around her and captured her mouth with his again, exploring her with lips and tongue until he felt her relax.

"Does this feel like I don't want to?" He pulled her even closer. "But I meant it when I said I was willing to go slow. Are we in some kinda rush here?" He swept one finger down her throat, across her collarbone, then down her arm until his hand was entwined with hers, bringing it up to his lips to kiss it.

Stella looked at him, her breathing a little fast, the flush receding to just her cheeks. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and Don began to worry about stopping her. He brushed his free hand across her cheek, and kissed first one eye, then the other, tasting the salt of her tears on his lips.

"Stella, talk to me." He was one breath from begging on his knees, although he wasn't sure whether he was begging for talk or sex.

"I haven't been … touched, held, since Frankie …" her voice was so low he could hardly hear it.

"I know," he said quietly, moving slightly so that she was tucked up against him more comfortably. Talking was good, he tried to tell the over-sexed adolescent presently inhabiting parts of his body. He wanted more, much more, than a quick tumble and a lifetime of questions and regret. Talking was the mature route to go.

But, God, he burned for her.

"Except by you." She looked at him, a tear running down her cheek. Gently, he wiped it away. "Remember? We were in the hospital room, and you hugged me. And kissed me on the cheek."

Her hand, still linked with his, rose to her cheek, as if she could still feel the kiss on it. "I wanted you to know I was there for you." He said it softly.

"You were the only one who touched me. Everyone else held back. Like they were afraid that I would break if they touched me. And for a long time, I didn't really want anyone to touch me, or come too close."

She sat up a little, and wrapped her hands around his face as she came very close and whispered, "Except you. I think I wanted you to touch me, Don." She rubbed her lips over his, as if enjoying the texture. Her hands moved into his hair, and her mouth was on his again. He lost his sight along with his breath; all he could see was stars.

"Stay," she breathed into his mouth. "Stay with me."

Don gave up the struggle. His hands sought out warm, firm flesh. She gasped when his mouth closed on her throat, sucking and licking his way down to the swell of her breasts. She arched into his kisses, her head falling back to allow him better access.

Slowly, tantalizingly, he explored her, one hand easing under her t-shirt to stretch over her slender ribs, marveling at how much of her his hand covered. The other hand tangled in her hair, loosening it from the ponytail she had pulled it into quickly earlier that evening when Hawkes had called. Don wrapped the loose strands around his hand and pulled her head back to feast again on her throat, his tongue tickling the pulse beating wildly under her jaw.

Moaning as the heat rose, Stella pulled away from him, smiling into his face as a hint of dismay flashed over it. With one move, she pulled off her t-shirt. She slid her hands under the NYPD sweatshirt Don had showed up at the station in, and slowly pushed it over his head until they were skin to skin.

With an appreciative murmur, he unclasped her bra, filling his hands with her breasts, rubbing his thumbs over her erect nipples, then dipping his head to run his tongue over first one then the other. She shuddered as he blew a stream of warm breath over her, then pulled his mouth back to hers.

"Oh God, Stella," he whispered against her mouth, "Do you have any idea what you are doing to me?"

"Show me," she breathed back, with a wicked laugh, and let her fingers wander up his thigh, shifting her body slightly as she did to evaluate the evidence.

He grinned, sliding a hand up between her thighs as her eyes widened. "Let me show you."

They both froze as a phone ringtone broke the tension, sending them scrambling for their phones, attached as usual to their waistbands. Entangled as they were, it was easier to grab each other's than their own.

"Not yours," Don groaned as he looked Stella's phone.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as she handed him his.

"I'm on call." He flipped open his phone and hit the callback button as Stella slid off his lap and pulled her t-shirt back over her head. He watched her with suppressed agony as she turned away from him, running a hand through her hair and looking suddenly embarrassed. He reached a hand out for her and pulled her back down onto the couch beside him as he bit out a few questions, then sighed. "Be there in," he checked his watch and calculated times, "thirty minutes. Call in CSI and Traffic Control."

He put his arms around her and just held her tight, his face burrowing in her neck, breathing heavily. "I'm sorry. Accident on the freeway – ten car pile up; everyone in."

Stella nodded. "Do you need me?"

He groaned a little, then laughed, "Desperately, but not at the scene. You are off this shift."

She smacked him on the shoulder, then kissed the sting away. "I didn't mean that."

"I know, but I did. Stay here, Stella. Have a bath, watch a movie, sleep, go shopping. You need a day off." He smoothed her hair back from her face, tugging it gently until she looked at him. "You need to think. I'll be back, if you want me to be."

"Come back," she murmured as she ran her hands over his shoulders and down his chest, causing him to catch his breath and groan again. "Come back soon."

He grabbed her hands and turned them up to his mouth, kissing first one palm, then the other. "I'll be back as soon as I can. I'll bring food and we'll talk, okay?"

She leaned close and said in his ear, "There's really only one thing I want to hear you say."

He closed his eyes, and croaked out, "What?"

He nearly lost it then and there when she whispered in his ear, "I'm coming!" with the appropriate catch in her breathing.

"You are very wicked, Stella Bonasera." He grinned and caught her mouth with his, teasing her with his tongue until her eyes were cloudy and unfocused.

"I think I like that about you," he whispered into her mouth.

By the time he got to the scene, he was under control, as long as he did not let his thoughts drift to Stella in any way. The scene was a particularly horrific one, and no one thought twice about the bite in Don's voice as he took control of the situation, organizing rescue teams to get the injured out of cars, dealing with confused and angry witnesses with his usual brusque efficiency.

He was moving towards the final car, which had flipped and was precariously rocking on its side, when he heard a scream. "Help me! Help me!" He sprinted towards the car and saw a woman in the driver's seat, tangled in the seat belt, bleeding from a head wound and thrashing around, panic-stricken.

"Ma'am? Ma'am! You have to stay still. You're going to make the car roll. I'm here – we'll get you out." Even yelling to get over the noises of the accident, Don's voice was confident and soothing, and the woman stopped struggling immediately.

"Not me. The baby. Find the baby!" She gasped out. 

"Both of you. We'll take care of both of you, I promise! Hey, over here!" Don motioned to the nearest team, and told them to secure the car. A quick glance in the car had shown no evidence of a baby, not even a car seat. Still talking patiently to the woman trapped in the car, he started to search the area around the car, getting closer to the hill on the side of the split level freeway, hoping to find something before he got there. Nothing.

The woman's voice was getting more and more frantic, but there was a full team dealing with her, so Don concentrated on finding the baby. There was only one more place to look, and he went over the verge without any more doubt that what he was looking for, if it existed, was down a 20 foot embankment. He scrambled down, sliding on his hands, knees and sometimes rear, searching as he went, stopping every few minutes to listen in the hopes that the baby was still able to cry. Above him, he could hear the sirens and bustle of a major rescue operation. Below him, he could hear the sounds of traffic; the freeway split into two levels through this section, cars streaming in one direction in two lanes.

He made it to the bottom of the incline, and started scanning the side of the road, still hoping to hear a baby's cry over the much louder traffic noise down this close to the road. He looked back up, trying to gauge how close he was to the original accident; he had gone slightly off track in trying to get down the hill. He turned and walked back, facing the cars, all senses on the alert for a car seat with a baby.

Suddenly, he heard the squealing of brakes, and looked up in horror to see a toddler walking into the middle of the road. Before he could consciously decide what to do, Don's feet were off and running, with the rest of him trying to catch up. He snatched the child inches, it seemed, in front of a car, and spun to run back towards the safety of the side of the road. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the horrified face of a woman whose day had gone swiftly to shit, and sprinted, child in his arms, straight off the road into the ditch, rolling onto his back to protect him.

He lay there, panting, eyes closed, arms wrapped around the tiny warm body. He felt a hand patting his cheek, and opened his eyes to stare straight into the grinning face of a two-year-old boy whose eyes were alight with mischief.

"Do it again! Fly again!"

_A/N: Okay, I usually research things pretty carefully, but in this case, I needed the freeway into NYC to be a split level for the plot, so I arbitrarily made it that way. Apologies to any readers who believe in authenticity!_


	42. Chapter 42: Things to Do

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks to all my readers who offer support and information and feedback, and thanks to all those who just read and (I hope) enjoy the story. We're back to Bozeman, Montana!_

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 42: Things to Do

_Come on, let me through_

_I've got so many things I've got to do_

_I've got no business being here with you_

_This way_

By 7:45, the Monroes and Danny were at the hospital, making the final arrangements to keep Lindsay safe. John Monroe met with Danny in Chris Marten's office to go over their part of the plan.

"So, are you going to play the Fed card?" Danny asked, moving around the office restlessly, fiddling with things on the shelves and the desk. " 'Cuz I gotta tell you, the whole New York City cop schtick didn't do a thing for me."

John sat behind the desk and watched the other man with his usual cool detachment. "Well, Messer, not everyone thinks New York is the centre of the universe," he said wryly.

Danny flashed him a quick grin, "That's because they are lacking some essential information."

John raised an eyebrow, "Like what?"

"That New York _is_ the centre of the universe," Danny pointed out logically.

"At least when I flash a badge, people have to listen, at any rate until they find out I have no authority. So let's make sure that we take them down in one move, okay?" John didn't crack a smile, but his posture eased a bit. This was going to work.

"Yeah. I'm looking forward to it," Danny's smile turned grim.

The two men finalized their game plan, and then went back to Lindsay's room to check that the rest of the plan was in place. Danny moved straight to Lindsay's side, looking her over carefully to make sure she was okay.

The bruises on her face had gone from black to green and purple; the abrasions were fading slowly. She had a sling holding one arm to her body, and a brace on her leg keeping her ankle stable, but she was sitting up talking to her brothers. Danny swallowed hard; she had been so lucky he couldn't believe it. She should have been a smear on the sidewalk; he and John had looked at the accident site the day before and if the truck had hit her one second sooner, or a few inches either way, she could never have survived.

Her hair was a mess, she was wearing a faded blue hospital gown, and there were dark marks under her eyes. And yet, when she grinned up at Danny, he thought she had never looked so beautiful. He reached for her hand and without thinking, bent to kiss her cheek, but she raised her head so that their lips brushed instead. He nearly jumped back from the electric buzz.

Jamie cleared his throat, "We ready to go here?"

John nodded, "Messer and I'll go to the police station; keep them busy. You guys get the peanut on her way. We'll meet up in two hours. Mick, you got the supplies?"

Mick tore his disapproving glare from Lindsay, whose eyes had not left Danny's face since he had walked into the room. "I've got enough for an army for a week; after that, Messer'll have to go hunting."

Lindsay threw Mick a mocking glance, "First of all, enough to feed whose army for a week? You've never seen this one eat!"

"Hey, Monroe, you calling me a pig?" Danny interjected.

Lindsay ignored him, although she squeezed his hand, "Second, what makes you think I need a man to go hunting for me? Who bagged the first moose three seasons ago?"

Jamie touched her arm gently, "I don't think you are going to be lifting a rifle any time soon, peanut."

She snorted, "Just watch me! I'll be hiking circles around city boy in no time!"

Danny watched her in fond amazement as she chipped back at her brothers, throwing every teasing comment back effortlessly. He could see that she was in pain; her eyes were shadowed, and she moved her feet restively, as if she wanted to be up and going. He knew that mood of hers well, sometimes finding it hard to keep up with her when she started moving. However, she was doing a good job of hiding her physical discomfort.

"Let's go, Messer. Operation Gadfly commences now," Special Agent John Monroe ordered, after checking his watch. "Eight hundred hours. We meet at ten hundred hours." He looked over sternly at his younger brother, who was doing his best not to giggle. "That's 10:00, Mick, you got that?"

Mick gave him a mocking salute, "Sah! Yes, sah!"

John sighed ostentatiously as he stood up and shrugged into his suit jacket. He was going in looking official this time, even if he didn't have official FBI standing in this case. He knew his supervisor would cut him some slack if he asked. Family was something Special Agent Morales understood.

All three brothers left the couple a few minutes to say goodbye, but Danny was very aware of their presence out in the hall, and tried to restrict his goodbyes to a careful hug, a kiss on the cheek, and an admonition to be careful and do what she was told.

Lindsay clung to him a moment, then let him go with a tremulous smile. "Danny…" she hesitated, then went on resolutely, "Be careful yourself, Danny. Someone out there is scared and vicious. He won't hesitate to go after you."

Danny grinned, "Hey, your mom told me I was her hired gun. Don't you know we never die?"

She pulled him close for another of those knee-buckling, heart-stopping kisses, only letting him go when he gently pulled away.

"I'll see you at ten hundred hours, right, Montana?" His warm husky voice stayed with her when he walked out of the room.

Danny met up with the brothers in the hallway outside Lindsay's room. "She's scared and she's hurting. Be careful with her, okay?" He directed the comment at Jamie, the oldest brother, who looked back solemnly.

"As careful as she'll let us be, man. You just watch out and make sure you show up, okay?"

Danny shook hands with both Jamie and Mick, and then followed John out the hospital and down to the car he had rented when he flew home. John cleared his throat as they climbed in, "I have to tell you something, Messer."

Danny shrank in his seat, but tried not to show it, "Yeah?"

"John McKim showed up at the hospital about six hundred hours this morning."

Danny could feel the spit drying in his mouth. "Why?" He could barely get the single word out.

"He wanted to talk to Lindsay alone. We didn't let him," John said quickly. "Jamie and I stayed in the room with them, let Mick get some breakfast."

"What did he want?" Danny stared out the car window, refusing to meet Lindsay's brother's eyes.

John sighed, "Danny, you have to realize – I went to school with the guy. I've known him my whole life. Lindsay was his partner; he taught her how to stay safe out there."

"What did he want?" Danny repeated, grimly.

"He wanted Lindsay to go away with him. He said he could keep her safe. And he probably could," John said quietly.

"Safe as the grave," thought Danny, biting his tongue and closing his eyes. It had been about 6:00 this morning that he had felt the world move beneath him. Maybe it really had. Maybe it had left him floating in space.

"As long as he isn't the one trying to kill her."

John sighed, "I know, I know. He's not in the clear. But he's not a likely suspect either. He wasn't even in town when the original shooting happened, and he's a good cop, man. He knows the town, knows what's going on."

Danny opened his eyes and looked at John incredulously. "If he knows people in this town so well, how come he doesn't know what is going on in this case? You'd think he'd have worked it out by now. Why would he need to take Lindsay away to keep her safe? He could just solve the case."

John Monroe nodded thoughtfully. "I don't know. But I trust him, Danny. So does Lindsay."

Danny clenched his jaw. He had known that breakfast was going to kill him; it was choking him now. "What did she say?"

John glanced over at his slightly green passenger, wondering if he was going to have to pull over to let him out on the side of the road. "Sorry?"

"When he offered to take her away? What did Lindsay say?" The words bled out of Danny.

"We couldn't hear." John thought a moment, then offered, "She laughed."

They were pulling up to the police station, and Danny took a deep breath and swung out of the car almost before it stopped moving, walking quickly towards the building.

"Hey. Hey, Messer!" Monroe grabbed his arm and jerked the angry young man back around to him.

Danny glared at him, "What?"

"Look, I don't need a cowboy in there. If you can't hold it together, you're out, got it?" Monroe got right in Danny's face, breathing heavily, speaking under his breath.

"Fuck you, Monroe! You wouldn't even be here if I hadn't let you in on it. Just because you're used to bullying provincial cops on their own turf doesn't mean you scare me. We're doing this my way, and if you don't like it, you can just suck it up!" Danny didn't bother to keep his voice down at all, his accent strong and obvious in the quiet Bozeman street. Passers-by stopped and stared openly at the two angry men, and one man hurried his young children across the street, away from the fight everyone could feel brewing.

Once again, John Monroe stood down, letting go of Danny's arm, and shrugging, smoothing his suit jacket. "We'll finish this later. We have work to do."

"Any place, any time, Monroe," Danny muttered, but followed the agent into the station. Looking up, he could see people moving oh so casually away from the front-row seats to the show they had enjoyed at the window. The two men were certainly going to be the centre of attention.


	43. Chapter 43: Act Naturally

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: As always, thanks to my reviewers who push and question and even doubt if I'm still on track. Here's a little more action for you! _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 43: Act Naturally

_We'll make the scene about a man that's sad and lonely_

_And beggin' down upon his bended knee_

_I'll play the part but I won't need rehearsal_

_All I gotta do is act naturally_

Doors seemed to open and people to melt away magically as the two men entered the building. Danny was irrepressibly reminded of the old Westerns he used to watch with Louie on Saturday afternoon television, when a gunfighter walked into the bar and everyone froze or hid under a table. Well, Diane had told him she was hiring him as a gunslinger, hadn't she?

He swung into step behind John Monroe, letting him take the lead. John didn't hesitate or slow down, just swept through the building into the back corner office, where he walked in on Olafsen and Evans pouring over an incident board. Lindsay's picture was front and centre of the board, and Danny felt his heart clutch: the photo was one taken by the CSIs after the hit and run, and every bruise and scratch was mercilessly highlighted.

"John? Nice to see you! When did you come into town?" Bob Olafsen was effusive in his greeting, jumping up to pump John's hand and greet him warmly. "How's life in DC? I can't tell you how much I miss Quantico. Great days. Really great days."

"Bob," John returned the greeting politely, ignoring Danny's narrowed eyes and suspicious glare. "Good to see you too. My dad called me when Lindsay was attacked the third time."

Olafsen's eyebrows rose high on his forehead, and he ran a hand over his thinning gray hair. "Three times? Are you sure?"

Danny slammed a hand down on the desk, "Don't play with us, Olafsen! You know it's three times! One bullet, one truck, and one hand opening her IV drip. She nearly died of an overdose two nights ago. And you still haven't put anyone on her room, you still haven't processed her clothes, and you still haven't found the evidence that your lab lost. Are you stupid or just incompetent?"

John grabbed Danny and shoved him ungently away from the centre of the room. "Shut the fuck up, Messer! I told you I'd handle it. If you can't keep your nose clean, get out!" His voice was cold and deadly quiet.

Danny pulled away from John with an inarticulate noise of disgust. "She's your fucking sister, man! Are you going to let them kill her right in front of you and do nothing?"

John turned away deliberately, his face impassive and voice flat. "I'm here on behalf of my family, Bob, asking that I be allowed access to your investigation. This is not an official request, yet." His voice left no room for discussion, but Evans interrupted anyway.

"We don't need the Feds any more than we need hot-head assholes from the city interfering here. We can handle the investigation."

"Yeah," Danny's hands were shaking with the desire to simply plow Evans down. "Yeah, you're doing a great job. How much evidence have you lost? How are you planning to keep her safe? Have you even examined the evidence she collected on her own shooting? Jesus, you couldn't investigate yourself out of Saran Wrap, man!"

Evans turned his back on Danny, as if the younger man was simply not worth responding to.

John glared at Danny, mouthing, "Shut up!" again, then turned back to Olafsen, who was standing frozen with anger and distaste in front of the board. "Bob, all I'm asking for is some co-operation here. I don't want to call in the Department on this; you know it wouldn't look good for you. But as you know, I work for the Public Corruption Unit at the FBI. There are some problems here, you have to admit."

Olafsen spoke through frozen lips, "I am looking into the loss of evidence. We have traced the bullet casings to Detective Monroe's presentation of evidence just before her accident."

He did his best to ignore Danny's growl at the use of the word 'accident' and went on.

"Detective Monroe collected all the evidence and put it in the box to hand over to Detective Jeffers. When he went through the box, the envelope with the casings was not in it."

"You told a tech – what's his name? Ross? Yes, according to detective Monroe, you told Ross to take and process those casings. He's one of your ballistics guys?" Danny had his notebook out now, and Olafsen's eyes were glued to it in dismay. Evans continued to look out the window, his back to the rest of the room, but Danny could tell by the tension in his body that he was listening.

"Ross Adams, yes. He's one of our techs. He says that the casings were not on the table when he went to pick them up, and that when he went to Jeffers to get them from the box, they were not there either."

"Ross?" Danny flipped through his book again, and read through a page before looking up and staring at Evan's unresponsive back. "When you came to interview Detective Monroe in the hospital, and I asked about processing her clothing, you said Ross should have picked up the evidence bag collected by the hospital. Is that the same Ross? Did you ask him why he didn't?"

Evan's voice remained cool and unemotional, "Ross went to the hospital, but the clothing was gone. People had been in and out of that room; there's no way of knowing who took it."

McKim walked into the room, carrying a file, which he dropped on Olafsen's desk. He looked at Danny with a thinly veiled sneer that Danny had no trouble interpreting.

"Perfect," thought Danny, feeling a kind of rage building in him at the sight of Lindsay's former partner.

John glanced at Danny warningly. Evidently the Bozeman police had not requested the security tapes from the hospital. Danny didn't react to Monroe's warning look. "So you haven't put anyone on her room either? You think this is finished? You think this guy is satisfied?"

Olafsen sat down in the chair behind his desk suddenly, his eyes shadowed and exhausted, looking at Lindsay's brother and ignoring the abrasive New Yorker. "John, we're doing what we can. We don't have the manpower to guard her room. And to be honest, it's hard to be sure what happened in all these circumstances. Lindsay didn't call us out to the house to process the scene; all we have is the evidence she collected. There's no proof that anyone tried to kill her – it could have been an accident or just, I don't know, a joke or something. I agree that the street accident may look suspicious, but again, we have nothing to go on, no witnesses, no forensic evidence. And you know how people drive around here! When I first moved West I was told to drive as if the other drivers were all on horseback, ready to move in any direction at any time, and I've found that pretty good advice."

As Olafsen talked, Danny could see him relaxing into a story-telling posture, slipping on the mask of the 'good-ole-boy' he must have used to get elected to his position at least a couple times since 2000. Even his voice slowed and began to drawl a little as he talked himself out of taking Lindsay's case seriously.

Time to shake him up again. Danny pushed himself away from the wall he had been leaning on. "Yeah, nice. So first Lindsay rode in front of a loaded gun and then – boom! – walked in front of a careless driver? I get it. I guess she better get back to the real world; seems she loses all her common sense here in cow country." His voice was dripping with disdain.

He moved across the room as quick as a striking snake, banging up against Olafsen's desk, startling the sheriff into retreating, pushing back into his chair. He leaned over the desk, snarling into Olafsen's pale, sweaty face.

"So, did she climb out of bed on her broken leg and open her own IV? Did she put herself into convulsions, nearly kill herself with an overdose of morphine just to get some attention? 'Cuz, you know, that kind of makes sense to me. It looks like her death is the only thing you're going to take seriously. As long as she survives, you're going to downplay and ignore it. That how it plays out here in Smalltown, USA, Sheriff?"

John, grabbing Danny by the arm a moment before a white-faced McKim got a hold of him, threw him back against the wall. "That's it. That's the last time, Messer! I told you to cool it. I told you to stay in control. You can't do that, you're outta here. Now!"

He looked at the shaken sheriff. Evans had turned from the window when Danny had started yelling, and had his hand hovering over his gun. "Let's all just take it down a notch, can we? I'm going to take Detective Messer back to my parents', then I'd like to come back and see what evidence you have, and see what we can figure out. Bob? Detective?"

The sheriff nodded, still a little worried by the violence in Danny Messer's eyes. Evans shrugged, but didn't argue about John's return. McKim stood in the corner of the room, arms folded across his chest and face stoic.

Danny tried to pull away from John's restraining arm, "You can't just make this go away by dragging me back to the ranch, Monroe. Someone needs to make them accountable."

He continued to rave and yell as John dragged him out of the office and down the hall. He struggled against the hands on him until finally John had to lock his arms together behind him, and push him out the building into the parking lot, where he shoved him up against the car and hissed in his ear, "Do I need to use handcuffs, or are you going to shut the fuck up?"


	44. Chapter 44: Hide Your Love Away

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: So here's to trustno1-1987, who posted the 500th review for this story, which is amazing. She requested a little mention of one of her favourite passions, so see if you can figure it out!_

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 44: Hide Your Love Away

_Here I stand head in hand_

_Turn my face to the wall_

_If she's gone I can't go on_

_Feeling two-foot small_

Danny slumped against the car into Monroe's restraining grip, all energy gone. Monroe manhandled him into the front seat of the car, slamming the door on him vigorously, then climbing into the front seat and peeling out of the Bozeman Police Station parking lot.

They drove down the road a few miles in silence. Slowly, John's normally impassive face broke into a wide grin.

"Think they bought it?"

Danny relaxed against the door and smirked back, "Hey, playing a hotheaded asshole from New York wasn't exactly a stretch! I think they bought the whole farm and all the livestock!"

The two men locked eyes in the rear-view mirror, and then burst out laughing. Danny moaned theatrically as he rotated his shoulder. "You could have lightened up a little on the roughing up, though! Man, don't you Feds get sensitivity training?"

"That's only necessary for sensitive people, Messer! You're from New York – not a sensitive bone in your body!"

Danny groaned a little, "Oh, yeah. That's right. I forgot."

"Besides, the key to any good operation is total buy-in. I have to admit I kind of enjoyed pushing you around. Take it as a promise," John glanced slyly at Danny.

"Yeah. Yeah. Copy that, Monroe," Danny put his back and sighed. He had to get involved with a woman with brothers, didn't he? Older brothers. Three of them.

They drove in silence for a minute, before Danny cleared his throat, "So, I have a question."

"42," John answered automatically.

Danny looked at him inquisitively, "Sorry? What's 42?"

"The answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything." John didn't crack a smile as Danny stared at him in confusion.

"What are you talking about?"

"Sorry, Messer, family in-joke. I sure hope you picked up Lindsay's copy of the Guide when you grabbed her books." John shook his head.

Danny waved his hands in the air, and signaled Time-Out. "Can I ask my question now, or are we still in La-La Land?"

"Go ahead."

"Olafsen and Quantico? What's the story there?"

"He was in training before I started." John's response was terse. "Washed out after six months. Still shows up for seminars and so on."

Danny's eyebrows rose so high they nearly disappeared. "That so?"

John stifled a sigh, "Doesn't mean anything, Messer. Only about one in four make it through the training. And lots like to keep in touch with the stuff we teach."

"Yeah, but they don't all like failing, do they?" Danny muttered.

John shrugged, but didn't answer, driving fast out of town for about a half an hour, to pull up at a roadside diner a few miles outside of Livingston. He pulled into the parking lot and waved to Jamie, who was standing at the door of the diner, watching for them.

"Okay, Messer, have to leave you here. Thanks for the set up – I love playing good cop!" John grinned at the New York investigator.

"Just make sure you get the information to Mac, okay? I need him to look at everything we can find."

"You think a lot of him, eh? This Mac Taylor?" John shot Danny a look.

"Best there is – you'll see. You ask Lindsay some time." Danny reached out and shook hands with Lindsay's brother, wincing good-naturedly as his shoulder muscle gave a twitch. "Next time, I play good cop and get to beat you up, okay?"

John laughed, "Next time, we'll beat up the bad guys together!"

"Here's to that! Thanks, man. You better get back." Danny slid out of the car.

"Yeah. Tell Linds I love her, okay?"

"You got it."

Danny watched as the stylish rental took off back the way they had come. John was going back to the Bozeman Police Department to keep them off-balance and see what he could shake out of the snake's nest. Danny hoped he would be able to handle what he found out. McKim had observed their little play a bit too coolly for Danny's taste.

He turned and walked into the diner, meeting Jamie at the door. "She okay?"

"See for yourself." Jamie pointed to a booth near the back of the restaurant and Danny saw Mick, who waved. As he moved closer, he saw Lindsay, tucked in against the wall, protected by the intimidating bulk of her brother. Quickly, Danny slid in to the booth across from her, and grabbed the hand she reached out to him. He squeezed it tightly, and breathed easy for the first time since he had talked to Diane on the phone two days ago.

"John said to tell you he loves you. He's on his way back to the station to see what information he can get to Mac."

Lindsay smiled tiredly and nodded.

Mick said gruffly, "No problem getting her out – Chris took her down for x-rays and she just didn't come back. Mom phoned fifteen minutes ago; still no one showed up from the station. So far as we can tell, they don't know she's gone yet."

Danny nodded to him, but spoke to Lindsay, "You didn't tell anyone?"

A flash of irritation sparked in her eyes, "Of course not."

"Not Cindy, the nurse? Not McKim this morning?" Danny pushed.

He wasn't surprised when Lindsay pulled her hand away, although it cut deep.

"No."

He started to ask another question, but she went on heatedly, "Honestly, Danny, I'm not an idiot. I didn't tell anyone."

"Okay, okay, I believe you." He didn't, not entirely. Lindsay knew it too; she didn't reach for his hand again, folding her arms defensively across her chest. He knew that look.

"Listen, children, we still have nearly two hours to drive to the cabin. Let's try to get along," Jamie said.

Mick broke in, "You want something to eat, Messer? We already ordered; Lindsay was craving something other than green Jell-O."

Danny shuddered at the thought of food, "Naw, I'm good. Your ma made me breakfast this morning. I may not eat for a week."

"Sausages? Bacon? Eggs?" Mick closed his eyes on happy memories.

"And toast and biscuits and fried potatoes. She even offered to fry me up a steak! Steak for breakfast? Who eats that?" Danny shook his head in disbelief.

Grinning, Jamie pushed a menu over to the New Yorker, "Look under the breakfast menu, Messer."

Sure enough, under "Trucker's All Day Breakfast Menu" was the Full Monty, including everything Diane had offered Danny, plus cheese bread and home-made cactus salsa. Danny grinned; then his eye fell on another menu item.

"Rattlesnake? You people eat rattlesnake out here?" He laughed in surprise. "Who'd 'a thought?"

"What? It's just protein." Lindsay said with a sly grin, her voice back to normal. "And this from a man who once ate wasp tamales!"

Danny put one hand on the table again, and was relieved when her hand found his.

"Yeah, but that was on a bet, Montana!" Danny smiled at her cockily.

"What do you mean? You lost the bet to Mac," she said in surprise.

"Yeah, that's twenty bucks I'll never see again. On the other hand, I won $50 from Hawkes, $50 from Stella, and $100 from Flack."

"What? You bet on me eating that stuff, and you didn't share the pot with me?"

"Actually, the bet was that I wouldn't be able to keep any of it down. I only bet on you with Mac. And I did have plans to share the winnings with you." Danny didn't want to tell her that he had blown some of the money on a very good bottle of wine at an expensive restaurant where he had sat waiting for her just long enough to feel like a complete ass.

She flushed and looked down at the table as the waitress brought up the food they had ordered before Danny had arrived with John.

Danny watched her pick at the waffles she had ordered, wondering if her appetite had been better before he showed up. He had let go of her hand when the food showed up so that she could eat, and was a little surprised that he missed the warmth of it. He wasn't normally a hand-holding kind of guy; it smacked a little too much of restraints to him.

The waitress smiled at him, "Can I get you something, sir?"

"Just coffee, thanks." He smiled back politely.

Lindsay plunged a fork violently into one of the strawberries on top of her waffle, letting the juice squish out over the plate.

Jamie and Mick were making short work of the breakfasts they had ordered, and Mick nudged Lindsay, "Come on, kid. You gotta eat, and we gotta move out soon."

She pushed her plate away, barely touched, and smiled a bit wanly at her big brother, "Sorry, guys. I'm ready to go when you are."

Danny opened his mouth to tell her to eat, but snapped it shut when she glared at him. What was the point? If anyone understood how hard it was to force food into an unwilling stomach, it was him. He cleared his throat and wondered for the first time how Lindsay and he were going to manage stuck in a cabin in the woods all by themselves, even for just a few days.

Up until now, everything had been a rush: get to Montana, get to Lindsay, get her out of hospital, keep her safe. For the first time, he thought about days and nights alone with her, and he swallowed hard. How was he going to handle this?

Mick threw his napkin down and turned to Lindsay. "Do I have to force-feed you? You need to eat something, peanut."

She closed her eyes, and Danny could see a wave of pain cross her face as she dropped it into her hands. "I can't. I'm sorry, Micky."

"Leave her alone; she'll be all right," Danny said quietly. "Let's just get her to where we're going, okay?"

"Let's go, then," Jamie said, and went to pay the cheque.

Mick slid out of the booth, and turned to offer Lindsay a hand. When she didn't move, he touched her shoulder in concern. "You okay?"

She raised her head and looked at Danny. "Give us a minute, would you, Mick?"

Danny's heart froze in his chest. Here it came. The earth had moved out from under him and he was left floating in space.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." Mick stared at Danny's white face, shrugged his shoulders helplessly and walked over to the cash register to speak to Jamie in a low voice, glancing back at the still pair in the booth.

"Danny," Lindsay's voice was trembling, but determined. "You know I appreciate your coming out to Montana. I couldn't believe it, actually, that you would come all this way."

He started to speak, but she put up a hand to stop him. "Just let me say this, okay? If you say anything, I won't be able to finish."

He closed his eyes and nodded.

"You don't have to stay," she blurted out.

His eyes opened, blue eyes turned to flint. "Why? You got someone better on tap?"

His voice, harsh and bitter, surprised even him.

She flinched as if he had struck her. "No. John could … or I can stay with Mick, or … " Her voice faded, and she looked at her brothers, speaking almost under her breath. "Not Jamie. Carol, the boys – I can't risk them."

Danny put his head in his hands for a moment. Well, he thought, that's how they were going to manage being in a cabin together. They wouldn't.

"Danny, you should go home to New York. I don't want anything to happen … Danny, please go home."

"Why do you think I came out here, Lindsay? To just turn around and run when you need help?" He couldn't even breathe in, but somehow, he thought with horror, he could manage a biting tone that had her going white again.

"If something happens, if you get hurt," her voice was broken and just above a whisper, and her hand reached across the table and clutched his convulsively. "I can't risk it. Don't you see? I lost them all, Danny. I can't lose you too, not like this."

Danny's jaw dropped. "Let me get this straight. You want me to go back to New York because I might get hurt?"

"I can't do this, Danny."

"No way. I let you get away with that last time. This time you are going to listen to me. Do you know what I felt like when your mom told me you had been hit by a truck? Do you know what I felt like watching you convulse when you were ODing on morphine? Do you have any idea…?"

He stopped. Lindsay had tears rolling down her cheeks, and was struggling to keep from sobbing out loud.

The pictures he had looked at the night before flashed in his memory: Cameron's brains and Tricia's blood all over Lindsay's clothes and hands and face. He slid out of his side of the booth and in beside Lindsay, gathering her in his arms and holding her closely.

"I'm so sorry, baby. Of course you do. I'm sorry. Don't cry, Lindsay, I can't bear it." He soothed and murmured and out of the corner of his eye saw the two Monroe brothers, who had been preparing to come back to the booth when they saw tears, settle back against the counter.

"I'm sorry, Danny." She was gulping in air, trying unsuccessfully to stop the crying.

"What for? You don't have nothing to be sorry for." He stroked her back slowly, trying to calm her, trying to ignore the effect her body in his arms was having on him.

"Yes, I do. I did tell John."

Danny's heart stopped beating.


	45. Chapter 45: Taking Her Away

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks goes out, as always, to all my reviewers who argue and push and question me, and to the readers who keep coming back. You all keep this story, and this writer, going. _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 45: Taking Her Away

_You're going to lose that girl_

_I'll make a point_

_Of taking her away from you, yeah_

_The way you treat her what else can I do?_

Lindsay took one look at Danny's frozen face and buried her face in her hands.

"No, no, don't cry. Lindsay," Danny put his hands around her face and coaxed her to look at him, "What exactly did you tell him?"

"He said I should go with him, that he could keep me safe. He said that whoever was after me would go after you first, try to get you out of the way. He said he knew a place where we could be safe, and you could go back home and I wouldn't have to worry about you…" Lindsay's exhausted voice ran out as Danny's mouth came down on hers.

It was gentle, it was loving, and it really shouldn't, Danny considered, have made Lindsay cry harder.

"I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, and nothing is going to happen to me." He whispered it against her lips as he ended the kiss.

"He just kept saying it." Her eyes were wide, drowning in tears, as she looked into his. " 'You don't want Messer to end up like the rest, do you? You don't want him to end up dead trying to protect you, do you? Not like Cam. Not dead like Cam.' Finally, I told him I was going away."

"Did you tell him where?" Danny asked calmly.

"No," her hand came up and caressed his cheek. "He asked. I said I didn't know, just that it was somewhere safe."

"This is important, Lindsay. Did you tell him who you were going with?"

She closed her eyes, obviously playing back the conversation. "He said I should get out of the hospital and go into hiding. I said that was the plan. He smiled and said he had the perfect place, and that he would arrange to get me out of the hospital today. I said the plan was already underway, and that I needed him to stay in Bozeman and work the case. He said he was the best person to take care of me, and that I should just let him deal with everything."

She opened her eyes and looked into Danny's face seriously. "He said he should be the one to look after me because he loved me. He said he had always loved me."

She touched Danny's cheek again, smoothing away the pain she saw on his face.

"What did you say?" Danny forced himself to ask the question.

"I laughed. John McKim never loved me, Danny. Liked me, sure. Happy enough about working with me, okay. But love me? Not now, not ever. Even when he was saying it, there was nothing there. I looked into his eyes and they were just blank. Not cruel, not angry, not loving, not even – you know – _wanting_. Just … nothing."

She shuddered, and crept a little closer to Danny's warmth, tucking her head into the crook of his neck. He felt her soft breath on his throat, and felt her body yielding against his. He wrapped his arms around her and held on.

And just like that, the feeling of floating in outer space ended; his feet touched the earth again, and he was back on solid ground.

"Wait a minute. What was it McKim kept saying? Something about dying to protect you? Something about Cam? Did he mean Cameron? Cameron Johnston?" Danny pushed Lindsay's face up to look at him again, trying to see her eyes.

She blinked sleepily, "Yeah. Cameron Johnston. He was my boyfriend in high school. He was shot, right in front of me. He was trying to push me behind the counter, so that Forbes couldn't shoot me. Forbes shot him in the head." She had started to shake so hard that Danny gripped her tight, afraid she would fall apart.

"His blood … brain matter. All over me." She made a little mewling sound deep in her throat and dug her head back into Danny's shoulder.

"I know. I know, baby. I am sorry. So sorry." He rubbed her back and made soothing noises until she had calmed down a little, then as gently as he could, he said, "Did John McKim know Cameron Johnston?"

She murmured low, eyes closed and breathing deep, "Of course he did. Cameron was his nephew."

"His nephew?" Danny said, surprised.

"John's dad was, like, twenty when his sister, Cameron's mom, was born. So John was an uncle when he was two years old. Cameron was a senior when he was … when he died."

Danny narrowed his eyes. So how did the picture change now? Maybe not at all, but it was another piece of evidence to send off to Mac and the NY team. Could this be another piece of information 'everyone knew', so didn't write down? Or was this important?

Lindsay made a little distressed noise, and he noticed the pain on her face. "Let's get out of here, okay? We have a long way to go yet." He smoothed her hair back from her face.

"Danny?" Her voice dragged, as if she was nearly asleep.

"Montana?" He mocked her gently.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

She relaxed against his body, and he realized she had gone completely limp against him. Alarmed, he looked into her face, but quickly realized she really had just gone to sleep. With a wry grin, he moved carefully out of the booth, pulling her gently to the edge of the seat with him, then turned and lifted her into his arms, carrying her towards the door of the restaurant.

She had lost weight, he realized, since the first time he had lifted her in his arms and carried her across a roof, even since the last time he had lifted her in his arms and swept her to her bedroom. She seemed too small suddenly, more child than woman. When he looked at her face, he saw the crime scene photos taken thirteen years ago: a teenage girl who looked years younger than her age.

Jamie leapt to open the door, "What happened?"

"Cried herself to sleep. She told McKim she was taking off, Jamie. If he's the one," he made an impatient noise as both Jamie and Mick shook their heads, "Yeah, yeah, I know – he's her friend, he wasn't here when it happened, blah, blah, blah. I just found out he was also Cameron Johnston's uncle. In my family, that means something. I need Mac Taylor to know that too, and anything else we haven't been told because 'everyone knows that'."

He glared at them impatiently as they shared doubtful looks. "Are you willing to risk her life on McKim? Trust him enough to risk her?"

The brothers followed him out to the parking lot, where there were two trucks side by side. Jamie quickly opened one door, and helped Danny put Lindsay into the back seat, pulling the seatbelt over her, and then tucking pillows and blankets in around her to keep her comfortable.

"No," Mick finally admitted, as Danny turned back and glared at him. "I don't trust him enough to risk her."

"Okay, then. I need you to go back as soon as possible and keep an eye on McKim. John knows I don't trust McKim, but he thinks that's more … personal. Thing is, Lindsay isn't sure about him either anymore. Tell John, okay? That's two votes. Can I find this place on my own?"

Jamie and Mick looked at each other, then reluctantly nodded. "With directions, yes." Jamie said. "But there's snow coming. I don't think it's a good idea."

Danny turned to look him full in the face, "No, it probably isn't. But it's the only idea I have at the moment. I need to get her away, and I need you guys to run interference. There's something weird going on here; you guys have a better chance at finding out what it is than I do. Are all the supplies in this truck?"

Mick shook his head, "Not quite all."

"Let's move them then, and I'll go. You get back and help your brother. This can only end one of two ways, boys, and we definitely want the riding off into the sunset ending here, right? I'm not equipped for the shoot out at the OK Corral."

While Mick moved supplies, Jamie drew a quick map showing Danny the roads to take. "It's a small cabin just outside of Yellowstone National Park. There is some limited cell service in the park, so you may be able to access it if you go a few miles down the road this way," Jamie drew an arrow on the map, and handed it over along with the keys to the cabin.

"Okay. Any tricks with this cabin I need to know about?"

"Wood stove, electric light: this is the phone number if you need to give it out to anyone. It's fully stocked with emergency supplies; it's a hunter's cabin in the season. You'll be okay." Mick's voice was more confident than his eyes were.

"And if I'm not, I got Montana to help me. Take off, boys. Keep McKim off my back. I don't know what game he's playing, but there is more going on here than the obvious. Stay in touch with the team in New York; they'll be able to do more than the Bozeman office, even if everyone in it isn't dirty as last week's laundry."

"That reminds me," Jamie handed Danny the fax from Mac, which had arrived just after Ted and Danny had left the ranch. It was several pages long, and Danny folded it up to look over later.

Mick tossed him the keys, "Tank's full, and there're places to fill up. You got cash?"

"Yeah, lots. We go off grid as far as possible as of now." Danny started to get into the truck, then turned back to Jamie and Mick. "I'll take care of her. I promise."

Mick said gruffly, "That a guarantee, Messer?"

"Solid gold, man."

"Good enough. Try to stay in touch if you can. Otherwise, we'll let you know if there are breaks in the case."

Danny nodded, not trusting his voice enough to speak again, climbed into the cab, and started the engine. He glanced down at the map on the seat beside him, checked on Lindsay in the back seat, then pulled out of the parking lot, giving a small salute to the Monroe brothers as he did.

Mick clapped Jamie on the shoulder after the truck disappeared down the road. "Come on. Let's get back. They'll be okay."

Jamie looked at him seriously, "I can't help but feel we just shoved them off on a desert island or something."

"Well, let's go see who gets voted off the home island next, shall we?" Mick shook him a little and grinned.


	46. Chapter 46: Until Tomorrow

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N:Thanks as always to my readers and the wonderful people who tell me what they like and what they want and sometimes what they hate. I appreciate every message. _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 46: Until Tomorrow

_And when the night is cloudy_

_There is still a light that shines on me_

_Shine until tomorrow_

_Let it be_

Lindsay swam towards consciousness. She could hear singing over the engine sound she recognized as Mick's truck. Before she moved to New York, she had spent summers driving around Montana, Alberta, and British Columbia with Mick and Jamie, following the rodeo circuit in that truck. She knew it like she knew her own bedroom, every smell, every bump in the seats.

But the singing wasn't familiar. She knew the song, "Bless the Broken Road" by Rascal Flatts, but she didn't recognize the clear light baritone singing along to the lead line at all. Mick's voice was as big as he was, and he preferred roots music or Johnny Cash to the newer country-rock. Jamie still listened to hard-core rock like the Who and Stones, unless the boys were with him; then they listened to the Beatles and Queen. John didn't listen to music at all, preferring public talk radio when he could tune in.

She couldn't open her eyes to see who was driving; she was still fighting off the drugs that the doctors had used to keep the pain under control. Not that it had worked; pain had been a constant, nagging companion since that truck had deliberately sped up while she was crossing the street. It was green, she repeated to herself, a domestic half-ton, probably a Ford, with a driver whose head had barely made it over the steering wheel. He'd had a hat on, but she'd caught sight of his eyes for just a moment.

She sat up quickly, her hand reaching out for the driver of the truck. "His eyes! I recognized his eyes!"

Danny nearly drove off the side of the road when the body in the back seat suddenly came alive and grabbed his arm, "Shit, Montana!" He gripped the wheel, trying to regain control on the icy roads.

She shrank back into the nest of pillows and blankets she was wrapped in, holding on to the car door as the truck swung from one side of the road to the other. It seemed to take hours, but it was really only a minute or two until Danny had the truck under control and pulled over to the shoulder, resting his head on the steering wheel for a minute and getting his breath back.

"Hey, welcome back! Maybe next time you could give a guy some warning!" He turned around and grinned at her a little shakily.

"Danny – I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. Are you okay?" Lindsay stretched a hand out to him again, and he rubbed it between both of his.

"Well, I think you scared about five years off my live, but we Messers are notoriously long-lived, so it should even out. What did you remember?"

Lindsay frowned, shaking her head. "I … forgot again." She sank back against the pillows, her face drawn with pain.

"Okay, don't worry. We're about fifteen minutes from the cabin, if I've read this map right, so close your eyes; I'll get you there as soon as I can."

Danny turned back and started up the truck again, easing onto the road a little cautiously.

Lindsay did as she was told and sat back with her eyes closed. "Danny?"

"Hmmm?"

"I heard someone singing." She opened her eyes a slit to watch his face in the mirror.

"I had the radio on. Montana never heard of rock and roll?"

"Yeah, I know. Rascal Flatts. But it wasn't Gary LeVox I heard." She could have sworn she saw a blush.

"Must'a been, Montana. No one else around." He glanced at her in the rear view mirror, but she closed her eyes just in time.

"I guess." She smiled. Messer singing country? That had to get passed around.

"Hey, you going back to sleep? 'Cuz if not, could you take lookout for me?" Danny's voice was casual, but Lindsay caught a hint of worry.

"What's up?" She sat up, a little slower than before, and looked out the windshield. "Oh, shit."

Danny nodded his head. "Yeah. Not my cuppa tea, here."

"You've driven in snow before, haven't you?" She looked at him in surprise. It snowed lots in New York.

"Umm, I usually take cabs and subways when it snows, Linds. Public transport, ya' know?"

"Okay. How far did Jamie say it was?" Lindsay was sitting up now, leaning against the back of the seat, and reaching for the map. The snow had hit quickly, big fluffy flakes that clumped together as they fell. Danny had slowed down, turning on the truck lights, but it didn't help the visibility much, as the lights just reflected off the snow.

"I don't know. We might have missed the turnoff." Danny ground his teeth in frustration.

"Way to look after the girl," whispered the voice, back again, "How very romantic: you can hold her as you both freeze to death."

He shook his head as if trying to get rid of an annoying fly. "Anything?" He said hopefully to Lindsay, who was scanning the roadside.

"Yes! Yes, there it is, Danny. Turn left." Lindsay pointed eagerly, but Danny could only see trees, no road or turnoff indicated.

"Are you sure, Montana? I don't see nothing." Danny peered into the deepening gloom; although it was still before noon, the sky was gray with heavy clouds, and the snow was coming down even faster and thicker.

"Yes, I'm sure. Look, there's the track. And there's the sign: Porters. They were friends of my parents; now they live in Florida most of the year: Dale just comes up for the fishing in the fall. It's their cabin, trust me."

Danny turned into the trees, and sure enough, there was a tiny sign with the name Lindsay had recognized tacked about 15 feet up a tree pointing to a narrow track just barely wide enough for the truck. As it was, branches from the trees rubbed against the windows and cab, dumping snow on the windshield. The inside of the windows was steaming up, and with a muttered curse, Danny reached forward and tried to clear a space so that he could see.

"There it is," Lindsay pointed to a tiny log cabin behind another bend in the track.

"Okay, yeah. I see it now," Danny headed to the small clearing beside the cabin and started to park near the wood pile.

"Park closer to the cabin, Danny. We'll have to plug in the car." She said matter-of-factly.

He turned and cocked an eyebrow at her disbelievingly. "Okay, Montana, your brothers already tried some of this shit on me, but I really thought better of you."

She laughed at his face, and said, "Block heater? It has to be plugged in to keep the engine warm; otherwise the whole engine block could freeze up?"

He nodded in comprehension, grinning back at her. He pulled the truck up closer to the car, looking for the outside outlet, and grabbing the extension cord she handed him from a box in the back seat. The snow was nearly up to his knees, and he tromped a path from the side of the house to the front as he unlocked the door. Rubbing his hands, he took a quick glance around, then yelled back at Lindsay, "Stay in the truck 'til I come and get you!"

Lindsay stopped trying to unwrap herself from the cocoon her brothers had placed her in, and sat back. She was exhausted already, and groaned with frustration. This had to stop. There was too much to work out: the original case; the new case; Danny.

Her brain just froze up on that last thought. She couldn't even go there.

Danny came toward her, and she could see the worried frown on his face as he opened the door and held out his arms.

"I can walk. What's wrong?"

He ignored her, lifting her, the blankets, and a pillow easily in her arms, then turning around to trudge back through the snow. "Nothing's wrong. The cabin is cold, that's all."

She fit her right arm around his neck to help him balance her, and, she admitted, because she enjoyed it. Her left arm was still too sore to lift above her shoulder yet. "Is there a wood pile?" She looked around and saw a stack of wood on the tiny porch beside the front door. "Okay, you get me in there and bring in some wood; I'll get the wood stove going. What else are you worried about?"

He pushed open the door and deposited her on the big old dusty couch in the middle of the main room. "Just wishing I had kept your brothers for grunt work," he admitted. "That truck is packed."

She didn't bother saying she was sorry he had to do this on his own. There was no point. "If I know Mick and Jamie, they'll have packed the stuff we need immediately close to the canopy door. You should be able to just grab the red boxes, plus the cooler with food, sleeping bags, and cooking supplies. Blue boxes have the stuff we'll want if we're here a few days."

"You guys have some system," Danny's eyebrow went up teasingly.

"Years of hunting trips with complaining kids taught my dad a thing or two about efficient packing. You go get that stuff; I'll start the fire if you could just grab me about six logs from the pile. Find one as thin as you can."

Danny did that, and came back in to see Lindsay scooting along the ground on her rear end, trying to keep her right leg, which was in a brace, from knocking into anything. She looked up in chagrin, "I hate not being able to kneel down. This'll have to do."

"Do you have matches and paper?" Danny squatted down beside her, handing her a small branch with bark and moss still on it.

"Don't need them." She took her army knife out of her pocket, and pulled out the largest blade, then began to feather the end of the branch, cutting small strips of wood, but leaving most of them on the log. As she did that, she looked over at Danny, who was watching her hands in fascination. "The rest of the supplies?"

He looked at her in surprise, then pushed his glasses back up on his nose. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

She grinned at his back as he reluctantly went out into the snow again to start packing in supplies. Quickly she finished her starter log, then pulled the flint attachment out of her knife. She built up a little 'cabin' of logs around the starter, filling in around it with a handful of tiny shavings of wood, and struck the flint a few times to get a spark. Just as one of the strips of wood began to catch, the door flew open and Danny staggered in, carrying a huge armload of stuff. She snorted in disgust and said, "Hey, close the door for a second, could you?"

He squatted down beside her again, and watched in fascination as she struck the flint, then blew gently on the spark as it glowed among the tiny pieces of wood. She could feel Danny holding his breath beside her, melting snow dripping off his hair and the shoulders of a winter coat she recognized as one Jamie had worn in high school.

"Hey, look at that!" His voice was filled with a kind of wonder as the flame took hold, and began to lick its way along the feathered starter log. "I'm betting you were a Girl Scout."

"Be prepared!" She quipped back, her breath catching in her throat when she turned her head and found him only a few inches away. She licked her lips and moved towards him a little.

He blinked and moved back slowly. "I better … get the rest of the stuff. It's snowing like crazy out there. I'm not sure we're going to get out of here."

She nodded casually and turned back to the fire, putting in another couple of logs, then closing the door and opening the damper controls until the room warmed up.

It seemed to have cooled off a little more since Danny had realized they were stuck here in a snowstorm. 


	47. Chapter 47: I’ll Always be True

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks to everyone for all the comments and reviews; you've all been great. Here's the scene you've been asking for: Danny and Lindsay in the cabin, alone!_

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 47: I'll Always be True

_Love, love me do_

_You know I love you_

_I'll always be true_

_So please, love me do_

_Oh, love me do_

As Danny struggled to bring in the rest of the supplies, afraid to leave anything in the truck in case he couldn't get back out to it, Lindsay moved things around in the cabin, hopping on one foot and able to carry things in only one hand. Pain had long ago settled in her blood, so she could feel it pumping through every vein as she moved, but she set her teeth in her lips and soldiered on. As long as Danny could keep going, so could she.

By the time Danny came through the door with the last few things from the truck, he was dripping wet, and Lindsay was near tears. She vaguely remembered the cabin from family trips when she was small, and directed him to the tiny bathroom in the back of the cabin, beside a bedroom just big enough for one queen sized bed.

"Have a hot shower, Danny, or you'll catch your death. Your teeth are chattering." She didn't say that his lips were blue, but they were, and she wanted more than anything she could think of to warm them for him. However, since he had carried Lindsay in to the cabin, he had avoided her eyes as much as possible, keeping as much distance as he could in a cabin only 20 by 24 feet.

"There are towels in that blue box there, and there should be shampoo and soap in the small red one," she directed him without really looking at him, taking the coat he had stripped off and hanging it up in the corner on one of the hooks.

He nodded silently, and disappeared for ten minutes, coming back out wearing jeans and a sweatshirt Lindsay also recognized as having been Jamie's in high school. He was in bare feet, toweling his hair vigorously as he stopped in the middle of the room.

"What are you doing?" Two steps and he snatched the spoon Lindsay was stirring soup with out of her hand, and picked her up. He swung around to place her back on the couch, tucking the blankets in around her.

"Danny, I was just getting some food for us. I'm okay. You don't need to take care of me." Lindsay's voice broke as he glared down at her.

"Yeah, you're really good at doing everything for yourself, Monroe. Don't need anyone's help, do you?" He turned away before she could answer, and poured the soup into two bowls, putting one bowl on a small table beside the couch. He cut into a loaf of Diane's home-made bread, buttered one piece and placed it on a plate beside the bowl, handing Lindsay a spoon as he went and sat at the tiny table in what could be termed the kitchen.

Lindsay spooned up the soup unhappily, pretending to eat while Danny glowered at her from the other side of the room. She wasn't sure why he was angry with her.

"No," she corrected the thought almost before it had reached her consciousness. "I know exactly why he's angry with me. He came all the way out here to help me, and I keep pushing him away. And I don't even know why I do it. I deserve for him to be angry with me." She pushed the soup away.

Danny sighed. "You have to eat, Lindsay."

She turned her head away to hide the tears. "Maybe later. I think I'll have a shower."

"There isn't one. Just a bathtub." He picked up her bowl. "I'll heat this up for you later. I put the other towel in the bathroom, and the soap and stuff is there. Need a hand?" His eyes and voice were cool as he watched her pull herself up off the couch.

"I'm okay." She refused to be carried everywhere like a child, hopping slowly across the room and into the bathroom, closing the door and leaning against it, letting the tears fall.

She scooted across to the old bathtub, which was big enough for three people and far too big for the room it was in, and started filling it, stripping off the clothes her mother had brought her that morning, and into which she had struggled in one of the public washrooms in the hospital. Even the Bozeman police might have caught on if she had walked out of the hospital in a blue gown with her butt hanging out.

She slid into the hot water, gratefully letting it soothe sore and abused muscles. She soaked for a few minutes, then sat up to wash her hair, which was desperately in need of it.

She gasped when she tried to raise her left arm over her head though. She'd forgotten about that. She couldn't wash her hair with just one hand, but she was ready to pull her own hair out by the roots if it didn't get clean somehow.

That really was the final blow; she had managed everything else, but the thought of going back out into the living room with her wet hair still dirty and stringy after three days in hospital was too much. She burst into a full-fledged attack of the shaking, hysterical, crying jags.

The door flew open as her sobs penetrated to the other room, and with a shriek, she ducked under the water. Danny spun around, his eyes closed. "Uh, Lindsay? Are you okay?"

Sputtering and choking on the water she had accidentally inhaled, Lindsay sat up, water running over the side of the bath to the floor, and rested her head on the high edge of the old bathtub. Danny backed into the room, eyes still closed, one hand out, searching for her. When he touched her, he sat on the edge of the bathtub gingerly, "What's up?"

"I can't wash my hair," she whispered, so ashamed of her over-reaction she could barely get the words out.

She thought she could love him forever when he nobly refrained from laughing, although she saw his lips quiver for the briefest moment.

"Would you like some help?"

"It's okay," she started, then stopped when his body crumpled on a sigh. "Yes, please."

"Hand me the shampoo," he instructed, as he moved his way to the end of the tub.

She was to remember that as one of the most lovingly erotic moments of her life: Danny's gentle hands ran through her wet hair, first full of the vanilla and tangerine shampoo she had found in a little boutique in New York, massaging her scalp tenderly, then rinsing her hair over and over until the suds were all gone. She could feel herself relaxing under his ministrations, moaning when he moved from her head to her neck and shoulders. She snuck a look at him through her eyelashes, and had to stifle a giggle when she realized he still had his eyes closed.

"Thank you Danny," she whispered. She didn't want to break the mood, but the water was getting cold. "I'll get out now."

"Do you need a hand?" Danny stood up, one hand out, a towel in the other, waiting, eyes still courteously closed.

Slowly, Lindsay stood, water running down her body as if she has just risen from the sea. She put one arm around Danny's neck, pressed her warm naked body against his, and said against his mouth, "I need more than that."

His eyes flew open as his arms wrapped around her so tightly she could barely breathe. It didn't matter; she had lost her breath when his lips took hers, when his tongue coaxed its way in, when she felt his heart beat against her.

He groaned as she answered the heat of his kiss with her own, and lifted her out of the tub, careful not to bump her in any way. He carried her into the bedroom, where he had been making up the bed with the blankets and sleeping bags Jamie had thrown into the truck until he had heard her start to cry.

He turned and fell on the bed, carefully cradling her in his arms so that she didn't hit anything. He rolled so that she was lying on the bed beside him, running a hand down her arm and clasping her hand. He frowned when he saw the fierce bruises on her shoulder, hip, upper leg, ribs. He grabbed the

towel he still had in his hand and began to dry her off slowly, tenderly, pressing his lips to first one, then the next patch of purpled, angry skin, as he worked his way down her body. She moaned at the feel of his mouth on her, the scrape of his stubble on her warmed body.

"Lindsay," his voice was rough and hoarse as he moved back up to her ear, and she shivered at the sound of it. "Tell me now if you want me to stop."

"If you stop, I will feather you like I did that kindling," she whispered back in his ear, and he shook as he took her mouth with his again.

She melted into his body, her hands running under the sweatshirt he was wearing to touch taut muscles under heated skin. He pulled away slightly to take it off, and she moved her hands to his jeans, undoing them and pushing them off him with his help, dropping his clothes and the towel to the ground. She reached up and took his glasses off, folding them carefully and placing them on the tiny table in the corner of the room. Hands cupping his face, she kissed one eye, then the other, then worked her way down his cheeks until she was back at his mouth, which she took with a sigh.

His tongue teased, probing softly, licking first her top, then her bottom lip, sucking, nipping, then kissing her again. He had told her on the phone it could take him a lifetime to learn everything there was to know about kissing her, and he seemed to be in no hurry.

Lindsay, though, was. She had never believed it could be possible to hurt with desire, but she wanted him so badly she could hardly breath. Every place his hands touched burned, and her stomach was clenched with the need of him. "Danny, please …" she hardly knew what she was saying, rubbing up against him like a cat begging for petting.

"What? What do you want, Linds?"

Vaguely, she remembered him doing the same thing when they shared intimacies on the phone, forcing her to take the lead. She knew there was probably a reason for it somewhere, but right now it was driving her crazy: she didn't have the words for what she wanted.

She settled for action.

"Holy fuck!" Danny hissed as she engulfed his length in her hot eager mouth. His hands fisted in her hair briefly, as he bit his lip trying to control himself. She moaned around him as he slid one hand down her back, over her sweet ass, to explore her. As soon as he felt her slick wet heat on his fingers, he moved quickly, flipping her onto her back and sliding into her so deeply she thought he had pierced her to the heart.

She opened her eyes to see him staring at her, not moving, his throat working as if in pain. She arched against him, silently begging him to move, to fill her completely, to bring her the release she was longing for, but he remained locked over her, his arms braced, his eyes searching her face.

She put a hand up to his cheek, "Danny?" She bowed up against him again, desperately, and this time he moved, thrusting into her over and over until she was swept away in a tidal wave of sensation, blind and deaf to everything but the clench of her muscles around him, the heat of his body, his voice in her ear.

"_Ti amo, mi innamorata. Siete la mia vita, il mio amore, la mia ogni cosa." _

Slowly returning to herself, she wrapped her arms around him as he came in his turn, shuddering with the intensity of his release. She held him as he collapsed against her, held him when he pressed kisses against her cheeks, her nose, her lips. She stroked his hair when he curled against her, his head against her breast.

"I love you, Danny," she whispered under her breath.

_A/N2: The story will be on hiatus for a few days: I have to have surgery and will be off-line for a while. Watch for alerts – soon, I hope – for the next chapter! _


	48. Chapter 48: Want to Know A Secret

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Woo-hoo! trustno1-1987, who posted the 500th review for this story, posted the 600th too! So, in her honour, there is another little mention of her passion. _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 48: Want to Know A Secret

_Listen, do you want to know a secret?_

_Do you promise not to tell?_

_O-oh, closer._

_Let me whisper in your ear_

She held her breath. She'd done it. Said the words she had said to no one since the bright spring day she had whispered them to a sweet young boy under a tree on the school grounds.

Cameron had just told her he was going to Montana State that fall, instead of going to California as he had planned. They had kissed, and she had told him she loved him, the first time those words had passed her lips in the months they had been going out.

He was gone that afternoon, horribly, grotesquely dead, and so was the innocent girl who had dreamed of young love under a tree budding with new spring life. Something kept going, something which looked and acted like that girl, but she was never quite the same.

So, Lindsay held her breath. She had never said those words to any other man not related to her, had never even thought them before. But here she was lying in Danny Messer's arms, still shaking from a bone-rattling orgasm, their limbs entangled, his head tucked against her, him still hard inside her. And the words just leaked out of her.

She didn't know much Italian, just enough to order pasta at a restaurant in New York and not get laughed at. But she was pretty sure Danny hadn't been spouting menu items. She recognized _amo, innamorata, amore; _any opera buff knew that much. He'd said he loved her before too, in New York. In Italian and English.

She held her breath, waiting for a response. Any response.

Now would be good.

Any time now.

He was heavy in her arms, his body relaxed and still. His breathing was soft and slow and …

He was asleep.

She didn't know whether to laugh, cry, curl up against him, or beat him senseless.

He turned his head into her, rubbing his nose against the curve of her breast and making a funny little snorting sound of satisfaction before his breathing dropped another notch and he was really out.

Her heart melted and she decided not to beat him to death.

There was a problem, though. They were lying on top of the covers, and although the bedroom was warming up a bit from the woodstove in the other room, the air was still cold enough that Lindsay was starting to shiver.

Another problem: the woodstove only had a few pieces of wood in it. She needed to build up the fire or it would go out.

Yet another problem: if she didn't get up and go pee really, really soon, she was going to have figure out how to wash and dry bed clothes in freezing weather with no washer or dryer.

She lay under the weight of Danny's body, testing to see if she could wiggle out from under him. With only one usable arm, and an ankle that really should still be braced, her maneuverability was pretty compromised. And for a reasonably little guy (compared to her family, anyway), he was heavy. Still, by slow easy stages, she managed to move her way to the side of the bed, then out, heaving a sigh of relief as she made it to the bathroom.

She was a little startled when she looked at herself in the mirror as she washed her hands. Her face was flushed, her lips were full and swollen, her eyes were languorous. She looked like a woman who had been thoroughly, conscientiously satisfied. She had never seen herself as sexy before; that was a title for movie stars and women like Stella Bonasera. She had always been the cute one: the serious, slightly geeky, but cute one. She didn't feel cute anymore.

She wasn't sure how she felt.

"Cold. I feel cold," she said under her breath, and pulled on the clothes she had left by the side of the bathtub. She didn't bother with the brace; the ankle hurt, but it wouldn't feel much better braced. As she slipped quietly through the bedroom into the main room of the cabin, she pulled the quilt over Danny, pausing for a moment to admire his sleek, naked frame. He was still breathing heavily, and other than replacing her body with a pillow, he didn't seem to have moved much. She grinned when she went to pull a sleeping bag over him as well; he had left the sleeping bags zipped up, presumably so that she wouldn't feel too much pressure about sharing the bed with him.

"I wonder what he would do if I tried to make him sleep on the floor." A sputter of laughter accompanied that thought.

Slowly, she made her way into the main room, and looked around. As she had remembered, the cabin was small: one room 24 feet wide with windows cut into two walls, and a wood stove standing in the middle, with a half wall separating out the bedroom and bathroom. She left the dividing door open so the heat would circulate through the whole building, and went to haul in more firewood.

She took a quick breath as she pulled open the front door; she hadn't bothered to pull on her coat and the wind was bitingly cold out there. She looked at the stack of wood on the porch; it would do for tonight, but was not going to be enough for even one more day. The main wood pile was several feet away; she could just see it through the swirling snow.

She grinned again at the thought of Danny cutting firewood; she was no good with an axe because she could only swing one arm over her head.

Grabbing as many pieces of firewood as she could, she stepped back into the room and carefully filled the woodbox of the stove. She knew too much would be dangerous; she had no interest in trying to put out a chimney fire. On the other hand, she had no interest in getting up through the night to feed the fire either, so she needed to stack the wood right, then close the dampers the precise amount so that the fire was still going by morning.

She found herself humming as she puttered around the kitchen. Funny, she was starving now, and the soup on the stove didn't take long to heat up. She cleaned one bowl and then another, using pieces of bread to sop up the reminder. As she ate, she put away the food that the Monroes had gathered up. Not wanting to alert anyone to the fact that someone was planning a trip by buying supplies in the local grocery store, the family had for the most part raided home freezers and fridges. Lindsay laughed at the variety of meals she and Danny would have to choose from: leftover stew from Carol, her sister-in-law; Mike's five-alarm chili, which he made up in huge batches, then ate for weeks at a time; and several meals from her mother, including curry, and at least four different casserole dishes. Diane Monroe had never quite got out of the habit of cooking for six plus assorted guests. Her freezer always looked like the place leftovers went to die.

Most of the containers Lindsay put in the freezer, choosing a few to go in the fridge to thaw for later. There was milk and coffee and tea, juice and bacon and eggs, staples for cooking and baking, and even a huge batch of her mother's famous chocolate chip with everything cookies. Lindsay grabbed one and bit into it, carrying it in her teeth as she hopped back to the sink to fill a kettle: tea sounded good.

As she turned with the full kettle, she ran into something warm, solid, and naked. Startled, she jerked her arm and Danny yelped as cold water coursed over his body, soaking the jeans that were the only thing he had put on when he woke up and found himself alone in the bed.

"Geez, Danny! I'm sorry! Are you okay?" She couldn't help the giggle, even though she tried to stifle it, spraying cookie crumbs over him as she bit through the one she was holding in her mouth. The rest of the cookie fell to the floor.

"Good thing it wasn't boiling," he growled, shaking water off his hands and reaching for the tea towel she had stuffed into the waistband of her jeans.

"I'm sorry, but you shouldn't sneak up on me." She squealed as he pulled her into his arms, but relaxed and put her arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest.

"I didn't sneak. I'm just naturally stealthy." He rubbed his cheek against the top of her head, his hand rubbing her back. "You okay? I thought you'd go to sleep."

"As Marvin the Robot would say, 'I ache, therefore I am.' But otherwise …" She laughed at Danny's confused look, "Never mind. You'll need a crash course in Adams-ese at some point, I think!"

She cuddled into his arms a little closer, loving the contact, "I'm fine. I had to get the stove filled or it would go cold, and I was hungry, so I heated up the soup and then I thought I might as well put away the supplies and …" she stopped as he pulled her head up with a gentle hand under her chin to look at her with an amused smirk.

She sighed and laughed, "And I'm babbling. I'm just full of energy; I feel like I've been sleeping for days."

"There's a reason for that. Come and sit down. We should maybe talk."

"I'm just going to make tea. Do you want some?" She consciously kept her voice bright, turning away from him to refill the kettle.

"Naw, I'm good. Lindsay." His voice was determined. "Sit down and let me do that. Chris said you had to keep off that foot."

Unexpectedly, she did as he said, putting the kettle on the stove and then hobbling over to the couch. Her legs wouldn't hold her up. He had called her Lindsay. Not Montana, not Linds, not even Monroe. He only called her Lindsay under the grip of some serious emotion.

But from the look on his face, that serious emotion did not look like one she was ready to deal with.

_A/N2: I missed the all-important episode, sleeping off several interesting narcotics, but caught up on the most significant moments thanks to sugah66 and you tube. Now that this story has obviously gone completely AU, should I keep going, or wrap up?_


	49. Chapter 49: I’m No Superman

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers who took pity on my unusually whiny note last time: I'm pleading severe exhaustion and some narcotic withdrawal from my operation. The characters all started talking to me again, so the story will go on as long they do! _

_Another request, this time from Shelbers, who posted the 400th review (sorry it took so long, but I had to wait until we were back in NY!) Watch for a Hawkes moment suggested by her._

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 49: I'm No Superman

_Mister City Policeman sitting_

_Pretty little policemen in a row._

_See how they fly like Lucy in the Sky, _

_See how they run._

By the time Flack had struggled back up the hill with the two-year-old crowing lustily on his shoulders, the teams had finished most of the emergency clean up. The woman from the car had been extracted, but flatly refused to leave the scene until her son had been found.

"He's fine, ma'am," Flack reassured her, holding the boy over the stretcher on which she was secured until any back injuries had been assessed. "He's a little scratched up, but nothing serious, it seems. I'll give him to the EMTs to check over, and he'll ride in with you, okay? Can I call someone for you?"

"My husband – he'll be at work." The woman's eyes were glazing over; she had obviously only held things together until her son had been found, and was now letting go. Her breathing became laboured, and her eyes rolled into the back of her head.

"Got to get her out of here, Detective," the paramedic said tersely.

"Go. We'll get her boy there; tell her that, okay?"

Flack turned with a sigh of relief to a female paramedic who was holding her arms out for the child and cooing. As soon as he tried to hand him over, though, the little boy clutched him around the neck, screaming hysterically.

"No! NO! Wan' you."

"Come on, buddy. This is Sara. She's going to take care of you, take you to see your mom and dad. Okay?" Flack tried again to hand the little boy over to the young woman.

"NO! Don't wanna." For a little boy, the kid had a grip like a boa constrictor.

Sara put her hands on the boy's waist, trying to pry him out of Flack's arms, but when Flack looked down, the terror on the child's face was too much for him, and he shook his head resignedly.

"Don't. I'll take him. Jefferson!" He called to a rookie standing on the side of the road looking sickly at the blood pools beside a small car that was sandwiched underneath the wheels of a semi. Flack tossed him the keys to his own car. "I'm going in with the kid. Take my car back to the station, would you?"

Jefferson nodded in relief, and caught the keys.

Flack looked down at the little boy. "Come on, buddy. We're going for a ride in an ambulance."

The cherubic face looked into his again, holding his face in tiny sticky hands, and that flash of mischief was back. "Siren? Woo-hoo, woo-hoo?"

Flack couldn't keep the grin from forming, no matter how inappropriate it was under the circumstances. "You got it, kid. Woo-hoo."

He held the little boy on his lap in the back of the ambulance, while Sara tried to check the wriggling little body out. "Pretty sure he's okay. Needs a diaper change and something to eat, though." She smiled at the little boy and reached into a bag, pulling out a juice box. "Hey, buddy, you want some juice?"

A little suspiciously, the little boy held out his hand for the juice, then hid his head in Flack's chest again, noisily slurping the juice and spilling half of it when he squeezed too tightly. Flack grimaced at the smell of apple juice and put his head back tiredly. Dinner with Stella was looking a long way away.

"You have a way with kids," the paramedic said, matter-of-factly. "Got some of your own, have you?"

He shook his head, a smile of amusement briefly lighting up his face. "Naw, no time for that."

He thought he heard her say, "Too bad."

By the time they got to the hospital, the little boy was fast asleep, so Flack carried him in. An angry man was standing at the admitting desk, shouting, "Where the hell is my son? My wife came in alone; I want to know where my son is!"

"Sir, you need to calm down. We're doing everything we can to locate your son. You need to stop yelling." The nurse was motioning for the security guards on the ward.

"Sir?" Flack walked over, cradling the little boy. "Is this your son?"

The man turned so fast he ran into Flack, who could smell the alcohol on his breath, "Joshua? Oh God, Joshua." He reached out for his son, but Flack grabbed his arm and moved him over to the bank of chairs in the waiting room.

"Sit down, sir. Sir, have you been drinking today?" Flack looked at the nurse, "Get a doctor and do a tox screen, could you?"

"Gladly," the nurse muttered.

It took a couple of hours; the father was in no shape to take the child home, and the mother had collapsed on the way in and was now in Intensive Care. The social worker had contacted a family member, but Flack was stuck at the hospital until the grandmother showed up, because Joshua had woken up again and pitched seven kinds of fit whenever anyone tried to take him away.

"Man! Wan' Man!" His anguished crying was too much for Flack, and he had stayed, stepping out just long enough to call Stella's phone and tell her he wouldn't make it back for a while, and incidentally, let someone else change Joshua's by now near-toxic diapers.

By the time the grandmother made it to the hospital to take her sobering son and grandson home, Flack was exhausted with trying to keep the little boy occupied, filthy from the trek up and down the hillside, and beginning to feel the bruises and scrapes he had picked up in trying to protect the child when he landed.

Normally, all he would have wanted was a shower and his own bed.

Tonight, all he wanted was a shower and Stella's bed.

He stood outside the hospital, checking his messages. One from his captain, telling him to check in and get his paperwork done. One from Hawkes, telling him they had found something odd in checking the information Danny had sent, and that John Monroe was going to teleconference with anyone who could make it that night at the lab about 8:00. One from Stella, saying she was going to the lab to see what Monroe had, and that she hoped she'd see him there.

Well, at least he could get a shower at the lab.

When Don Flack showed up, clean but still dressed in the same stained, apple juice soaked clothes, in CSI headquarters about 7:30, he was startled to be greeted with cheers and applause. He narrowed his eyes, waiting for the punch line.

"Nice one, Superman!" Hawkes patted him on the back as he walked past.

"What are you talking about, Doc?"

"You haven't seen the news?" Hawkes stopped and looked back in surprise.

"Give me a break here; I haven't been home in nearly 36 hours."

"Follow me," Hawkes took him into the break room, poured him a cup of coffee, and pointed him to the TV, tuned to one of New York's all-news stations.

Pictures of the accident were on, with an inappropriately cheerful blonde reporter announcing three dead and seven in hospital with various injuries. The camera panned over the rescue workers, then focused on a man struggling up the hill, carrying a little boy on his shoulders.

"One happy ending in this day of tragedy: little Joshua Saunders, not yet 2 years old, had been thrown from the car his mother Kristina Saunders was driving. Seen here with Detective Don Flack Jr. of the New York City Police Department, Joshua seems remarkably untouched by the trauma he must have experienced when he was literally snatched from the jaws of death by the intrepid Detective Flack."

Flack's mouth dropped open as a new scene came on the screen: an obviously amateur video showing a tall figure in an NYPD sweatshirt running towards the child in the middle of the freeway, snatching him in his arms just as the oncoming car swerved, and seemingly flying onto the side of the road.

"A decorated officer in the NYPD, Detective Flack has already had a distinguished career, following in the footsteps of his well-known father, Lieutenant Don Flack Sr., who was honoured by the Mayor two years ago at his retirement."

A picture of Don Flack Sr. shaking the hand of Mayor Bloomberg was flashed up on the screen.

"Where the hell do they get this stuff?" Flack groused.

"There's a file on every person who may merit an obituary in the New York Times. I guess your dad is one of those people," Mac Taylor walked into the break room and poured himself a cup of coffee, grinning at the reporter on the TV now gushing about Joshua refusing to leave the "arms of his protector."

"Yuck. That really is information I don't need to know." Flack ducked his head and sipped his coffee, flushing again at the close-up of him trying to hand the little boy over to the paramedic, then giving up and getting into the ambulance, still cuddling the child.

"Looked like you landed pretty hard, Flack. You okay? Did they check you out at the hospital? That why you were there so long?" Hawkes asked.

"Naw, I'm okay. It was the kid: he was scared and wanted me to stay with him," Flack flushed a little at the amused grins the two men were giving him, but the flush turned into a full-on blush when he heard Stella's voice behind him.

"Of course he did. I told you before: everyone loves a hero."

A copy of the evening paper flew over his shoulder, hitting the table. He stared at the front page featuring a half-page picture of himself smiling at Joshua, whose little hands were wrapped around his face. The headline read, "The face of NY's finest."

He glanced over his shoulder, a little prepared for mockery, disappointment, even anger in her face.

He lost his breath at the warmth of her smile, and when their eyes met, the whole world stopped turning for the space of two heartbeats.

Neither of them noticed Hawkes' smug smile, or Mac's resigned handing over of a $20 bill.

"Back to you in the studio, Charles!" The reporter chirped.

"Thank you, Chelsea. That was Chelsea Grant at the scene on the I-78."

"Sweet little boy there, Karrin. At least there was one happy ending to a terrible day." The co-anchors were obviously being given the "spin" signal, meaning there was still a little run time to go.

"Well, that's one police officer who can fly to my rescue any time, Charles! So brave, and did you see the dimples?"

Don put his head in his hands as the break room rocked with laughter.


	50. Chapter 50: Searching for Answers

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: As always, my reviewers are awesome, and I can't believe how many people are hitting even without alerts working. Thanks to everyone reading and, hopefully, enjoying the story! I apologize in advance if it takes me a while to answer reviews, but I promise to respond as soon as possible to anyone who leaves me a thought or comment. Hopefully the alert/PM situation will be fixed soon._

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 50: Searching for the Answers

_And it really doesn't matter if_

_I'm wrong I'm right_

_Where I belong I'm right_

_Where I belong_

Stella sat down beside him, and touched Don's arm gently. Hawkes and Mac glanced at each other and silently agreed to be elsewhere.

"You okay?"

"I'm sorry I didn't make it back, Stel." His blue eyes stared into hers as if there were no one else in the world.

"You did good, Don." Her voice wouldn't quite work properly.

He shrugged, "Did the job, that's all."

She smiled, "You'll be lucky to get away with that when the reporters camped out at the station realize that you're here."

He looked at her in horror, "What reporters?"

She just laughed and squeezed his arm soothingly. "You must be about wiped out. Why didn't you just go home?"

"I'm okay. Couldn't miss the next thrilling installment in the Montana Mystery Tour, could I? Besides," he wrapped his hand around hers, "I didn't want to go home alone."

Her breathing hitched at the look in his eyes, and she had to look away, afraid that the world would just combust from the heat.

"Let's focus here, Superman! John Monroe should be phoning in soon, and Hawkes has some stuff for us to look at too."

He grimaced and rolled his shoulders, but then shoved himself up from the table and held out a hand. "Let's go see what kind of detective Messer makes on his own. Maybe between us all, we can keep the Feds from screwing it up."

When they entered the conference room, Hawkes had a webcam connection set up, and John Monroe was already greeting the other members of the team who were in the room: Mac, Peyton, and Adam. Adam was still on shift, but between cases, so as long as nothing big broke, he was available. Peyton had finished her shift a couple of hours ago, but had put in the intervening time working with Hawkes on some of the records from the original Montana case.

Stella smiled at Peyton, whose eyes were glued to Mac, and nodded to Adam before sitting down in one of the chairs in front of the screen. She looked at Monroe, tracing the family look he shared with Lindsay: deep brown eyes, thick, slightly curly brown hair. Unlike Lindsay when they first met though, there was no smile lurking in John Monroe; he was all business.

"This is Detective Stella Bonasera, CSI and Detective Don Flack," Mac finished the introductions as Don leaned casually against a wall, staring at the screen.

"Detectives," Monroe nodded. They nodded back, Don carefully impassive, Stella smiling for Lindsay's sake.

"How's Lindsay?" Stella would ask, if no one else had.

John's face softened a bit, "She's okay, thanks. A bit shaken up and battered, but she's strong. She'll keep things together. It's Messer I'm worried about."

All the members of the team stiffened in automatic defense of their partner, except for Mac, who stifled a sigh.

"What did he do now?"

"Put in a performance worth of an Oscar; I think he's missed his calling!" There was no mistaking Monroe's likeness to Lindsay now; the grin made his face a mirror image of the country girl she had been when she arrived, still shiny as a new car, before the troubles of the last year had knocked some of the bloom off.

Quickly, he filled in details of the last couple of days, including a dead-on impression of Danny's Staten Island accent that had even Flack grinning. "So," he concluded, "When I got back to the police station, they rolled out the red carpet for me! I think they were so relieved that Messer didn't come back with me, they'd have given me the keys to the city, if they could."

"So what did you find out?" Mac shook off his lingering worries about Danny in Montana; he should have known that Danny would come up to scratch when Lindsay's safety was at stake.

Monroe gestured to the timeline on the board beside Flack. "Well, if we're going to deal with the old case first, I'd love to get a copy of that so I can see it."

Hawkes tapped on the board, went to his computer and asked, "Email address?"

Monroe rattled it off.

"Okay, are you up and running?" At Monroe's nod, Hawkes said, "Copy's been transmitted; should be up in a moment. It's an interactive whiteboard, so as we add things, we can send you updates."

"Great. So you have everything we had until I got a hold of the original records that Lindsay couldn't get. I don't know what was going on in '95. So many of the reports were inaccurate or missing information, it looks like it was deliberate. But that doesn't make sense – this was huge. If they couldn't deal with it, they could have asked for the Bureau's help."

"Why didn't they?" Stella asked.

"I don't know. There was pressure from the mayor, from the parents, and from the internal review board to get help. I guess they had the kid. And they had shot him down – on camera – which was a huge public nightmare."

"The news was there? Can we get copies of the tape?" Hawkes perked up.

Monroe nodded, "I'll try. It's been tough even finding out where stuff is held. I'll check with the TV station; they must have archival copy with this new trial coming up."

They ran through the information they had, Monroe adding some of the local details, like McKim's relationship to one of the victims.

"So where was McKim when the original shooting happened?" Mac was standing in front of the whiteboard, writing in details.

Monroe was looking at an updated printout of the board and said casually, "McKim was out of the country. He came back in December of '95, went into the Forest Rangers, working in the back country."

The New York team raised their eyebrows at that.

Monroe looked up at six pairs of eyes waiting for more. He sighed, "Okay. I went to school with McKim. We weren't tight, but we were on teams together – basketball and football mostly. He was competitive. Extremely competitive. He was also world-class at biathlon. Could have gone way further than he did."

Peyton asked, "Biathlon?"

"Combination cross-country skiing and marksmanship. He competed nationally, even internationally, before he left high school. Was tapped for

the Olympics in Lillehammer, but got injured just before the trials, so he missed it. Should have been in Nagano in '98, but he'd stopped by then."

"How come?" Flack asked.

"Too competitive," was the clipped answer.

Mac's eyebrows rose, "How is it possible for a world-class athlete to be _too _competitive?"

Monroe seemed to contemplate how to answer that for a moment; then with a frown, he continued. "McKim was, probably still is, a bad loser. And I don't mean just a sore loser – swear a little, kick a team bench. I mean a 'clear the bench and the stands too', 'take the winners down like a pack of wolves' loser. He was bounced off the National team."

"Juvie record," Hawkes passed it over to Mac first, who read it silently, then handed it on to Stella.

"Yeah. He broke a competitor's leg. It was written up as an 'under the influence' and he was given probation, counseling, and community service. But anyone who knew him knew better."

"Knew what?" Flack asked, his eyes flickering over the record handed to him.

"McKim rarely drank, and never to excess. He may have got away with it, but it must have been cooked up by someone after the other kid had been knocked down the mountain."

"So McKim looks good for the attacks on Lindsay," Adam pointed out. "She pissed him off somehow, and he went after her."

John Monroe was shaking his head before Adam finished the first sentence. "No way." His voice left no room for argument.

"Why not?" Mac asked. "He was on the spot or nearby for all the attacks. Everyone trusts him."

Monroe's mouth was a grim line, "If John McKim had shot at Lindsay that first night, there is no way he would have missed." He said it simply.

"On a horse, at night…" Hawkes started.

"There is no way McKim could have missed."

"You are pretty sure of that," Flack remarked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"When you ran McKim, you find a hole in his record?" Monroe turned to Hawkes.

"Yeah, about 8 months unaccounted for. How'd you know?"

Monroe ran a hand over his face. "He was recruited. Spent a couple months training with Special Ops, then got sent over to the Middle East. Spent a couple more months on a sniper detail."

"Target?" Mac's face was set, and Peyton moved closer to him, but not touching.

"He had a list of high-level targets. Can't give you details – not one of our operations, and long before my time anyway. I stumbled across the records a few years ago and recognized the name. Christ, he was barely nineteen."

"He wash out?"

Monroe shook his head. "I don't think so. He was pulled when the op was called off after the Riyadh bombing in November of '95. Next thing we knew he had joined the Ranger Service and was working the Montana back-country in the National Parks."

"Okay," Flack said, "So we got a policeman with military training, ranger training, back-country experience, but is content to stay in uniform? It's not adding up for me."

"Add that his nephew was one of the original victims, and explain to me why, when two of my people are hiding in said back-country, I shouldn't be worried." Mac's voice was cold, his whole body poised for action.

Monroe shrugged his shoulders, "I told you. If McKim had wanted Lindsay dead, she'd be dead. He could have easily manufactured a fatal accident for her when he was training her five years ago. He would not have missed her, no matter what the conditions, that night she was out on Dusty."

He looked around the room, seeing, even on the grainy monitor provided by the webcam, the doubt in people's faces. "I've done the Profiling sessions with Special Agent Jason Gideon and his team in the FBI's Behavourial Analysis Unit, people. I know that McKim could kill without a second thought; he's organized, precise, and extremely well-trained. But he didn't do these things to Lindsay. He'd never have trusted to luck: snatching a car and hoping to catch her in the street, or opening the drip and hoping no one would come back in. Those are the actions of an opportunistic killer; McKim would have planned every move. And he would not have failed. Not once. Never three times."

He watched as people reluctantly nodded around the room. They had to admit his logic. Only Stella was not agreeing, sitting tensely forward and frowning deeply. She looked up in his face and said quietly, "What about the whole 'come away with me' thing? Seems to me you've left that out in your calculations."

The rest of the team turned and looked at her. She shrugged and said, "I talked to Linds this morning before Jamie and Mick got her out of the hospital. She told me McKim had shown up at 6 am to try and convince her to go away with him. He told her he loved her, had always loved her."

Monroe frowned, "Yeah, Mick told me Messer said that. I thought it was just …" he shrugged as the New York team glared at him. "I mean, have you seen those two in a room together? Little evil grinning Cupids flying around their heads?"

Flack, Hawkes, and Adam snorted with laughter; even Mac cracked his first smile in a while.

"But Lindsay would never overplay McKim saying that," her brother admitted, thinking deeply. "What the hell game is he playing?"

"Could he be planning to use Lindsay as bait, maybe?" Flack offered. "Maybe solving this crime is his ticket to something else?"

Monroe mulled that over. "I'll check that out, see what I can find."

"In the meantime, you've hidden my people away in a place that one of my main suspects knows like the back of his hand," Mac pointed out in a deadly quiet voice. "Solve that."

John Monroe looked up into Mac's eyes fiercely, "She's my goddamned baby sister, Taylor. You think you pull rank on this one? We put them in the safest place we could think of. There's no way we're getting them out, or anyone's getting to them soon, no matter how good they are."

Flack leaned forward. "What are you talking about?"

John picked up the webcam and pointed it towards the window. The New York team could see the snow filling the sky. "The meteorological service is predicting two to three feet, more in the mountains where Linds is. No one will be getting in or out for a couple days at this rate."


	51. Chapter 51: Take You Today

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks to all readers and especially reviewers. I did promise that Flack and Stella would have their chance, didn't I? _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 51: Take You Today

_The magical mystery tour is coming to take you away,_

_Coming to take you away._

_The magical mystery tour is dying to take you away,_

_Dying to take you away, take you today_

Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Maybe he had hit his head when he had landed in the ditch. But suddenly the thought of Danny Messer, the definitive city boy, being stuck in back-woods Montana in the middle of a snowstorm struck Don Flack as incredibly funny.

He put his head back and struggled to keep his amusement to himself. Breathing deeply, he counseled himself against hysterics; it wouldn't do him any good in this room to start whooping with laughter. Everyone in here was already on edge, worried about Lindsay, worried about Danny. And he was supposed to be one of Messer's best friends! How could he take this so lightly?

Well, it was a pretty funny picture, he argued with that more mature self. After all, Danny's idea of roughing it was having to watch a Knicks game on a small-screen TV and drink beer out of cans instead of bottles. As far as Flack knew, he had never left the Tri-State area. But when it mattered, he hadn't thought twice about jumping on a plane and going to be with Lindsay.

Flack looked at Stella, who was listening intently to something Hawkes and Monroe were arguing about. What, he wondered, would he be willing to do for Stella, if she needed it?

As if she felt his eyes on her, Stella leaned back in her chair and swiveled around to look at him. Her smile started way down in the depths of her green eyes, and lit up her face.

Anything. Anything she needed.

He snapped back to attention when Adam Ross exclaimed loudly, "That's a trip, man!"

"What?"

Hawkes had put up a list of other Bozeman police officers and lab technicians, and Adam was pointing at one name that stood out.

"Look at that! Ross Adams. What are the chances?" Adam was looking around the room.

Mac's eyes narrowed. "He's shown up before."

Hawkes agreed, "He's the tech who lost the bullet casings Lindsay collected at the ranch, and didn't collect her clothes to process at the hospital."

"So: kingpin, incompetent, or scapegoat?" Flack had moved up, all traces of humour gone now.

"What did you find out about him, Hawkes?" Mac snapped.

"Graduated from Montana State University in 2003, BSc with specialty in forensic sciences. Graduated high school in Billings, Montana, 1997. No record of employment outside of the Bozeman lab. He's clean, as far as I can tell."

"Sounding more goat than kingpin. Keep looking, Hawkes. What did you find out about the bullet found at the Monroe ranch?" Mac hadn't had a chance to talk to Hawkes before they met with Monroe; everyone was working on extended and double shifts.

"That bullet was from a Winchester 94 rifle. Pretty standard – most popular hunting rifle sold in the US," Hawkes was looking through his notes as he spoke.

Monroe nodded, "Nearly every family around here has at least a couple like it. Won't tell us much unless we can find the actual gun and match ballistics."

Hawkes looked up and focused on John Monroe on the screen for a moment, "Second shooter at the original scene? Bullets are also from a Win94, but the ballistics test was inconclusive on the original bullets. Looks like the testing is still incomplete?" Hawkes shook his head in disgust, and grabbed another file. "Forbes had a Ruger 10/22. That's confirmed by the ballistics report. But this mark on Lindsay's face from '95?" Hawkes flashed the picture up on screen again and pointed to the mark on her temple. It was rectangular and, once magnified, had a faint crosshatched pattern. "The dimensions could fit the Win 94 rifle butt."

"That makes it an even stronger bet that the second shooter is involved in the recent attacks on Lindsay. It's just too big a coincidence for me to swallow that someone else gets this upset with her when she returns. It has to be connected." Mac's face was a grim mask of frustration.

"I'll send you what I was able to twitch out of the old files, but there's not much more there," Monroe said. "I agree with you that these cases are linked. There's no way that Lindsay could have been involved in something else this big without it having shown up by now. As long as Messer and she are safe, we can work through the rest of this crap."

Mac rubbed his face tiredly. "We're not going to be able to put much more time on this from here, Monroe. We've stretched our resources, and my people, about as far as they can go."

Stella and Hawkes both looked up in inarticulate protest. Mac waved them silent, "I know everyone in this room would work as long as it takes to solve this, but we are running out of time here. I have to be responsible to the rest of the department."

"I understand and concur, Detective. If we could arrange one more meeting, perhaps tomorrow, we might be far enough ahead that we can make sure Lindsay stays safe."

Mac nodded shortly, keeping his back turned to his team, "Thank you, Agent Monroe. We will be in touch."

Hawkes shut down the connections, his fierce concentration on the job at hand showing his anger. Stella was somewhat less restrained.

"What the hell was that?"

Mac did not turn around to face her. "What was what?"

"We are not just giving up on them, Mac! This is Lindsay and Danny we are talking about! We don't just leave our own out there with no back up, no support!" She would have gone on, but the words choked her.

Mac turned slowly and everyone was shocked at the dead look in his eyes. "What do you suggest we do, Stel? All go out to Montana? We've already lost Danny. Stay here and keep working double, triple shifts? Flack has about five minutes left in him before he collapses, and Hawkes hasn't been home in two days. Do you really think I don't want to help those two out? But I will not jeopardize this lab's work or its integrity. And an exhausted team working round the clock does that."

Stella bit her lip against the angry words struggling to be said. Peyton was looking at her beseechingly, silently begging her not to keep pushing Mac. Hawkes and Adam were keeping out of the way, shutting down the computers and tagging what evidence they had. Flack stepped up beside her, and took her arm gently.

"Come on, Stella. He's right. We need to break, at least for a while. We're not giving up on them, I promise you." He shot a look at Mac, but refrained from adding any more heat to that fire.

He led her out of the room. They walked silently down to the parking lot and Stella held out her hand for the keys to Flack's car. He patted down his pockets, too tired to argue, then froze when he realized he didn't have his keys.

"Shit. Jefferson has my keys. He drove my car back from the scene." He leaned up against the car, wiped out.

"Stay here; I'll find them." It was only a few minutes later that Stella was back, unlocking the doors and pushing Don into the passenger seat. "He'd left them with the Desk Sergeant. Keep an eye on that boy, Flack. He could be useful."

Don nodded tiredly, put his head back against the headrest, and promptly fell asleep.

He vaguely remembered getting out of the car when Stella told him to. He vaguely remembered fumbling for his door key, and holding on to Stella when she said goodnight. The next thing he knew clearly was waking up in his own bed, fully dressed except for his sweatshirt, shoes and socks, with Stella warm and wrapped in his arms.

He blinked once in the darkened room and moved very slowly so as not to wake her up. He needed a bathroom, a toothbrush, and his head examined, in that order. The first two were quickly accomplished; the third would have to wait.

While he was in the bathroom, Stella had rolled into the centre of the bed, most of the bed clothes falling off her. Carefully, Don stripped off the clothes he had now spend far too much time in and climbed in beside her, insinuating himself slowly back into her arms. She was wearing nothing but panties and one of his old t-shirts, and it was the sexiest thing he had ever seen.

He ran his hand through her hair, fascinated as always by the life it seemed to have as it curled around his fingers. He ran his knuckles gently over her cheek, then followed the curve with his lips, down her throat to the warmth of her shoulder. She moaned and moved against him, and his mouth trailed back up to hers.

He teased and tormented her into consciousness, hands held loosely behind her, touching her only incidentally if at all. Nothing but his mouth, his lips, his tongue, tasting, savouring until she was shaking in his arms. She answered him in the same key, her hands touching nothing but his face. They breathed each other in, catching a word here and there and tossing it back, murmuring soft nonsense sounds, creating a language unheard of until that moment.

When his hands finally swept over her body, she arched against him, all thought suspended. His hands exposed, enticed, explored her until she could no longer wait, and when his mouth followed, she lost all the control she had so carefully maintained for the past several months. She simply came apart, and he held her as her body responded, murmuring hoarse, broken words of commitment and passion until she returned to herself.

Then, and only then, did he rise above her. Then, and only then, did he fill her. And only when he felt her respond again, come again, did he take the plunge into oblivion that was waiting for him. And it was her name and nothing more that he gasped out as he went.

The world seemed to have stopped: heartbeat, sight, hearing, all suspended for a few minutes. Then, with a rush, all sensation rolled back and he realized he was crushing Stella under him. He shifted onto his side and pulled her into his arms again, brushing her cheeks, her lips, her hair with his mouth, murmuring her name over and over.

Stella lay still in his embrace. Her eyes remained closed, her lips trembling, her hands cold on his arms. She didn't pull away from him, but he could feel her disappearing, nonetheless.

"Stella? What is it? Did I hurt you?" He knew he hadn't, not physically, anyway. He may not have been with as many women as rumour had it, but he was experienced enough to know real passion when he felt it convulsing around him.

She shook her head, not speaking, not opening her eyes.

"Then what's wrong? Talk to me, Stel." He'd do anything for her, wasn't that what he had thought in the conference room? Anything except wait until she was really ready, it seemed.

She shook her head again, tears leaking from under closed eyelids.

"No way. You don't get to cry and not tell me what's wrong. Only girls do that." His voice was rough, but the hand which swept over her cheeks and dried her tears was so gentle it threatened to turn her weeping to sobbing.

He pushed her away and forced her head up to look him in the eyes. "Tell me what I did wrong."

She sniffed and said, "Nothing. It's not you, Don…"

"If you are planning on finishing that sentence the way I think you are, just swallow it now and think again." His scowl was so fierce, she unexpectedly giggled. He looked ruffled and frustrated and ready to slam his fist through something.

Stella bit her lip, and then threaded her hands through his hair, pulled him close, and bit his lip gently before curling into his arms more closely than before. "I was just wondering," she whispered.

"About what?" Distractions would not work, he reminded himself. He was an expert interrogator and no one sidetracked him from his duty to get the answers he was looking for. Not even a someone who was warm and naked and crawling into his lap.

"Wondering why it took us so long to get here," she whispered again, and took him over.


	52. Chapter 52: The Living and the Dead

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Arrgh, alerts! I have answered every review that has come through, but they probably aren't showing up. Rest assured some of you are getting several messages when the problem is resolved! Thanks to everyone who is reading and reviewing in spite of it all!_

_Now, I know. This chapter is a little out there. But the idea came from chocobetty, and then the characters begged a little (well, a lot, actually), and I couldn't resist. _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 52: The Living and the Dead

_All these places have their moments_

_With lovers and friends I still can recall_

_Some are dead and some are living_

_In my life I've loved them all_

Mac sighed and rubbed his eyes as Flack propelled Stella out the door. He hated fighting with Stella. That didn't mean it didn't happen, often. It just meant he had to face hating it pretty regularly.

"She'll get over it, Mac," Hawkes said quietly as he gathered up his gear. He hadn't been home or slept in his own bed since he couldn't remember when and he knew he was losing his focus. "We all will."

"Unless, of course, the shooter gets to Lindsay before you figure things out," a little voice spoke in everyone's head. Everyone resolutely tuned that voice out.

"I know. We've been given some slack here, Hawkes, but the brass isn't going to let us slide much longer. We need a name: something to feed to Monroe so he can figure this out. What the _hell_ is going on in Bozeman? There must be a reason for the screw-ups, now and in '95. Who was in charge? What happened to him?" Mac turned back to look at the files Hawkes had just packed away, but Peyton gently grabbed his hand.

"Doctor's orders, Detective. That's it for tonight." She shot Hawkes a look that threatened violence on anyone arguing with her. "Sheldon needs to go home. Coming close to thirty hours, isn't it, Shel?"

Cautiously, Hawkes nodded. He knew better than to stand in the way of a determined woman, and Peyton had determined down to a fine art. "I'll be back in the morning, Mac. We'll pick up there. I still have info coming in on the Bozeman staff; something has to shake loose."

He kept talking as the trio moved out of the offices, and Peyton sighed with relief when they made it all the way to the parking lot without Mac getting back to his office. Her smile was radiant when she said, "Need a ride, Sheldon?"

"Nah, I'm good. 'Night Peyton. 'Night, Mac." He turned and jogged away towards the subway, his usual mode of transport.

Mac started towards him, to insist on him accepting a ride, but Peyton stopped him. "He'll be fine, Mac. Could you drive me home, please?"

He turned back to her and saw with a sense of shock that her eyes were bruised and exhausted. She had stayed well beyond her usual shift as well.

"Of course. Peyton, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to drag you into this." He ran a thumb over her cheek, and she turned her face into his hand for a moment.

"They're my friends, too, Mac. I may not know them as well as you do, but I care about what happens to them." She let Mac open the car door for her and help her in. He was always so careful with the courtesies; since their fight, a little too careful with her altogether, she thought on a sigh.

Tonight, for example, he would do exactly as she asked, and take her home. To her apartment, the place they usually spent their limited time together. She had been to his home once or twice, but never to share a meal, never to spend the night, never to do more than spend a few minutes there. She understood. She couldn't blame him.

But living with a ghost was exhausting. Not being allowed to even try was worse, somehow.

She closed her eyes as Mac drove them through the New York streets, casually competent as he was with everything. She had come to terms with her relationship with Mac Taylor. Truly, she had. He gave her everything he was capable of giving, and that was more than she had wanted from any man before.

It was several minutes later that she opened her eyes, and realized that Mac, probably on auto-pilot, had driven to his own apartment. She looked at him in surprise, just in time to see the emotion wash over his face as he realized what he had done: shock, apprehension, a deep, abiding sorrow mixed with guilt.

Without even thinking about it, she reached for him with one hand, her cell phone with the other. "Mac. Mac, don't worry. I'll take a cab home. Don't, Mac. Don't look like that; it's all right."

He turned to her and hugged her fiercely, holding her so close she could hardly breathe. "It's not all right," he muttered, angry with himself for his carelessness, angry with her for accepting so little when she deserved so much more than he gave her. Gently, he took the phone from her hand and closed it up.

"Peyton, come in with me, please. Come home with me, please."

She pulled away and framed his face with her small hands, looking into his eyes. The deaf woman who had told him he spoke with his eyes had been right. Peyton always knew when he was trying to lie to her; he would refuse to look at her.

Mac took a deep breath and returned her look.

She nodded, and stepped out of the car. She stood for a moment, looking at the brownstone, then jumped when Mac came around the car and took her hand. He led her up the stairs, and opened the door.

It wasn't the first time she had stepped through the door of Mac's apartment, but she saw everything as if for the first time. The walls were painted colours Claire had chosen, soft greens and blues with bright yellow accents. The furnishings were soft, inviting family and guests alike to sit and spend time together. There were only a few paintings on the walls, each one chosen to commemorate a special occasion, or to complement the architecture of the room. An older building, the brownstone had wide hallways and high ceilings, and Claire had exploited the features: using the light available in each room from large windows, and highlighting the crown molding and shaped woodwork with paint and clever window dressings.

Someone had told her Mac had got rid of everything that reminded him of Claire after her death, but as Peyton moved through the apartment, following Mac towards the kitchen, she could feel Claire in every room.

Surprisingly, she felt only peace and comfort in the house. Perhaps Claire did not resent her being there. Mac, on the other hand, was stiff and quiet.

She stopped at one, obviously new, photo in a cheap frame placed on the mantelpiece over the living room fireplace. It was a photo taken in Times Square at Christmas, a bit out of focus, a little grainy as if it had been blown up a bit bigger than the resolution could handle. It was of a young man with dark blonde hair, blue eyes, and an engaging, open smile, with his arm around a smiling, if stiff, Mac.

"Claire's son, Reed Garrett. I guess he's my step-son, but I only met him this fall, so we haven't quite got there yet." Mac stepped up behind her and picked up the picture. "She'd given him up for adoption; she was too young and too … afraid, I guess. She told me about him; we were going to start proceedings to look for him when he reached 18. She … didn't make it." He cleared his throat, and Peyton stepped away to give him room for the memories.

He handed her the photo, "His girlfriend took it, just before Christmas. We met at the tree. I had given him some photos of Claire at Thanksgiving, and he wanted to give them back to me. He'd copied them all, and thought I might want the originals back. He's a nice kid. I wish …"

Peyton turned away from the misery she saw in his face, and replaced the photo on the mantelpiece. She knew who was in the picture, probably knew more about the boy than Mac did. Curiosity was not a failing restricted to detectives, and gossip was common currency at the lab. She had never asked Mac about him, though.

"She knows, Mac. I think she's glad you've met him, that you're trying to get to know him."

She almost jumped when she felt his arms go around her, his face pressed into her neck. Cautiously, she raised her hand and ran it through his short hair. She wanted to give him comfort, but constantly worried about stepping over invisible boundaries.

After a moment, he dropped his arms, and stepped away. "Can I offer you a drink?"

She turned and smiled at him, "Tea would be lovely. If you show me the kitchen, I can make it."

She followed him to the kitchen, and busied herself filling the kettle and heating the teapot. He only had teabags, but what else could one expect? She'd learned to make do in America.

"Tell me something about Danny," she said, determined to keep him talking and comfortable in his own house.

"Messer? What about him?" Mac asked.

"Why did you think he was going to mess up?" she prodded.

Mac sat back with a short laugh, "I didn't think I was that obvious. That's a bit embarrassing, I think."

"No," she silently answered him, "What's embarrassing is that I was watching you closely enough to know you were afraid he had messed up."

Out loud, she said, "I don't think anyone else noticed."

"Danny is a hothead. He gets emotionally involved in things and loses his objectivity." Mac stared at the glass of water he had automatically poured for himself.

"And that makes him a bad cop?" Peyton's voice held only a tinge of mockery.

"Science is objective, Peyton. It has to be," Mac looked up at her defensively.

"But he's a good CSI?" She knew she was pushing, but if this evening was going to end badly, she wanted it to be about her and Mac, not about her and Claire.

"Yes, he is. Look, we've had our issues. His family is connected." Mac looked at her to see if she understood the term.

She nodded; it hadn't taken her long in New York to learn that one.

"So he's aware, all the time, of being under scrutiny. Hell, he spent his childhood being watched by all sides. He was one step away from a major gang…"

"The Tanglewood Boys," Peyton supplied.

Mac nodded, "They killed his brother after Louie tried to exonerate Danny."

Peyton had emptied the teapot, and filled it again with the boiling water and two tea bags. "I thought Louie Messer was in a coma?"

"For months; he died several weeks ago. Danny's had other problems too; he got mixed up in the death of an undercover cop. He's always shooting his mouth off. He gets in the way when he should just shut up and do his job…" Mac's voice tailed off.

"But?" Peyton prompted.

"But he's smart, and stubborn. And he's desperate to prove himself. He's hungry, you know? To learn, to improve."

"To be what you expect him to be," Peyton supplied silently. Then she pushed again, "And Lindsay Monroe?"

"I recruited her from Montana when I read about some work she had done. She's meticulous, organized, detail-oriented… a perfect foil for Danny."

"That's Detective Lindsay Monroe, CSI. What do you think of Lindsay as a person?" Peyton was always curious about that complete separation Mac could make between work and everything else in his life.

Mac thought for a moment, "She's bright and inquisitive. I knew when I hired her that she'd been involved in this case in Montana; she was only a teenager when it happened. It could have made her weak, frightened. It could have made her hard. Instead, it made her … strong," he decided. He took another sip of water.

"She's sweet and somehow, I don't know how, she manages to keep Danny almost balanced. They make good partners."

"And now something more?" At Mac's shuttered look, Peyton laughed. "Oh come on, Mac. He didn't go out there because his partner was being threatened."

Mac closed his eyes, "No, I know. I just hate the messiness of this …" He stopped, as if realizing who he was talking to.

Peyton poured her tea with a steady hand, and picked up the teacup Mac had managed to find in the back of a cupboard for her. She smiled at him. "I know. But messy can be oddly attractive. Perfect can be a bit intimidating. And sometimes, opposites do attract."

He dropped his head into his hands for a moment. "God, Peyton. What if we can't do it? What if we can't figure this out before the shooter finds them? I can't lose them. I brought them in – handpicked them both. I trained them. And now I have about 24 hours to make sure that they survive."

Peyton reached out and grabbed his hand. "You trained them, Mac, and you haven't sent them out into the wilderness unarmed. Trust them, both of them. They're smart. With or without you, they'll come through this."

She finished her tea and stood up, carrying the china cup to the sink and rinsing it carefully. "Thank you for my tea. I am going to call for a cab and go home."

Mac stood, a hint of panic in his eyes, "Don't go! I hoped you'd stay … I thought you realized …"

She faced him, placing her hands on either side of his face, resting her forehead on his. "It's not the time, Mac. This house is still Claire's. It's all right," she said quickly as he rushed to contradict her, "It's all right. One day perhaps you'll have room for me here. But that day is not today. You need sleep and I need my own toothbrush." She brushed his cheek with her lips and stepped away, dialing a number as she did.

Mac stood frozen. How had this gone so wrong?

She turned and smiled at him. "Pick me up before work tomorrow?"

And suddenly things were not wrong at all.


	53. Chapter 53: A Shoulder to Cry On

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thank you so much to all my reviewers – this story has over 800 reviews as of yesterday! I am really honoured. I also appreciate all the people who are reading and following along with this adventure. I hope you all enjoy this next installment._

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 53: A Shoulder to Cry On

_If the sun has faded away_

_I'll try to make it shine_

_There's nothing I won't do_

_When you need a shoulder to cry on_

_I hope it will be mine_

_Call me tonight, and I'll come to you_

Danny carefully carried the mug of tea over to Lindsay on the couch, snagging a handful of cookies on his way. He sat on the coffee table in front of her, handing her the mug, which she wrapped her hands around.

"It's time, Lindsay," he said, looking at her with that intense look he brought to his work in the lab.

"Time? Are you going to share those or what?" She desperately wanted to keep this light.

He held the cookies out of her reach, but his serious look didn't change. "Not until we do this."

"Do what, Danny?" She was going to make a joke about them having done just about everything she knew about so far, but she thought it would fall miserably flat.

"I need to know what happened. I need to know what you've remembered, what you've figured out, what you know. We have to talk this through, just like any other case." He didn't take his eyes off her.

She sipped her tea, and looked into the milky liquid as if it held some kind of answers for her. "It's not any other case. It happened to me, Danny. I was in that room. I watched them die, all of them." Her voice disappeared.

Danny reached out a hand and gripped her knee, "I know, sweetheart. I know. And you can cry and scream and throw things at me while you do it, unless it's something hot," he added with a smile and a nod at the mug of tea she was gripping so hard her knuckles were white.

In spite of herself, Lindsay gave a watery smile.

"And it'll be hard. Lindsay, it's going to be hard. But as lovely as this place is," Danny glanced around the small cabin with a smirk, "And as much as I am looking forward to experiencing the joys of my first Montana snow storm, I want to go home. And I am hoping that you will be coming home with me."

She looked at him over the rim of her mug, eyes wide.

" 'Cuz I learned something over the past few days, Miss Monroe. New York wasn't home any more without you there."

"Danny…" her voice came out on a whisper.

"I'm not asking, Lindsay. Not yet. But you need to know. This – thing between us. Nothing else has ever come close for me."

Danny didn't move when Lindsay's eyes filled with tears. Shaking, she put her mug down on the floor, and reached her hands out to him. He let her pull him to the couch to sit beside her, but waited until she fit herself into the circle of his arms before he let himself relax and hold her the way he had been yearning to for so long it seemed to have originated with his first breath.

"This," she said, "Just this. This is home."

Neither knew how long they sat, wrapped in that magic circle. Long enough that Lindsay's tea grew cold. Long enough to hear a log burn through in the woodstove. Long enough that the storm which had been building outside began to bang and rattle against the windows.

Not long enough to feel it had been long enough.

Finally though, Lindsay stirred. "Danny, we need more wood."

"Hmm?"

"Danny."

"What?"

"You need to go get more wood for the woodstove. From the wood pile?" She had turned in his arms now and was laughing at him.

"Why me?"

She just looked at him, then quipped, "And they say chivalry is dead."

"Okay, Montana. Tell me what I am looking for." He sighed; the thought of even suiting up to go outside was definitely not appealing.

"Um, a big pile of wood?" She laughed when he glared at her. "What? I don't really know how else to describe this, Danny. It's a pile of wood about twenty feet from the door, between here and the car. Oh, and look for the axe; the wood probably hasn't been split."

"Let me guess. Chivalry again?"

She smiled at his disgruntled face and kissed him on the cheek. "But there are rewards."

He captured her mouth with his, swiftly taking the teasing note to a new level. How did he make her head spin so fast, she wondered.

His mouth moved down her throat, igniting a moan. She pushed him away, reluctantly.

"Danny…" she whispered.

"What? I'm just warming things up." His face was alight with mischief.

"You are very good at that. But I'm not sure even you can generate enough heat to keep the pipes from freezing."

"Want me to try?"

The growl was almost enough for Lindsay to give in, but she heard another log burn through in the stove and gave him a gentle shove. "Wood."

"Pretty damn close."

"Danny! Don't men ever grow up?"

He laughed and started to answer that ingenuous question, but she smacked him lightly on the shoulder. "Stop it now before you dig yourself a grave. I'm going to make you some coffee."

He groaned, but got off the couch, "And then we have things to talk about."

She suited him up like a knight on a quest, though instead of armour she helped him with sweatshirt, winter jacket, gloves, hat, scarf. "It's snowing heavily, Danny. No, listen to me!" She pushed his shoulder to get him to pay attention. "People get turned around in these storms all the time. Take this rope, and tie it to something when you get to the pile. It'll help you find your way back."

He looked at her askance, "Montana, I'm walking twenty feet. You really think I'm dumb enough to get lost in twenty feet? I know I'm a – what did you call me? City Boy? – but give me some credit, here!"

She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him hard on the mouth. "Do what you're told. Every winter, people die a few feet from their houses. It's not too bad yet, but with the wind and the snow … Look, just humour me, would you?"

Once he got out in it, Lindsay's concern didn't seem quite so far-fetched. The wind was buffeting at him from all sides, and the best he could do was stop every foot or so, glance up to get his bearings, then walk another few steps with his eyes on the ground, squinting fiercely to see through the snow being driven into his face. The worst New York winter he had suffered through could not compare to this.

He made it, finally, to the wood pile, and tied the rope Lindsay had insisted he take to the fence post near the pile. Then he looked around for an axe, and found not only a big maul, but a handcart on skids, which he promptly filled with as much wood as he thought he could manage. By the time he had turned around to go back to the cabin, his footprints, clear as holes punched in white paper only a moment before, were completely obliterated, and if it hadn't been for the rope, he wouldn't have known even which direction to head in to return to Lindsay.

The trip back was even longer, and harder. The handcart was heavy, and the skids got caught often enough that he seriously began to wonder if he would be better off to abandon it. Then he thought about doing the whole trek again a couple times that day, swore a blue streak in Italian, English, and maybe a little Klingon, and slogged ahead.

Suddenly, the wind swept a clear path in the swirling snow, and when he looked up to get his bearings, he could see Lindsay, standing in an open door, arms wrapped around herself as she shivered, the cabin lights streaming from behind her. He stopped, awestruck, but only for a moment before the wind drove him forward again, and he practically fell into her arms as she hobbled out onto the porch and helped him up the last few steps to her.

"Hey, Montana! Next time let's go for a nice fire-breathing dragon, okay? This snow and ice thing really sucks." He grinned up at her weakly.

"Oh, God, Danny. You scared the living daylights out of me!" She was scolding him even as she gently unwrapped his frozen clothes and began warming his hands and face with her own.

"Hey, you sent me out there! You knew it wasn't going to be a stroll through Central Park, here," he protested.

"Twenty minutes. It took you twenty minutes." She stopped what she was doing and wrapped her arms around him, holding on to him as if to keep him safe from the storm.

He shrugged off the soaking coat and let it drop to the floor, his arms automatically fitting around her. He could get all too used to this position, he thought contentedly. "Good thing I had the rope. Girl Scout," he teased her, his voice warm with affection.

"Okay." She stepped away, and wiped her eyes. Honestly, she seemed to do nothing but cry around this man. "Are there any pieces small enough to use, or do I need to send you out there again?"

In spite of himself, Danny shivered at the thought. "I just grabbed what I could reach and loaded up the skid, there."

Lindsay grabbed her coat and started to hobble out, but Danny stopped her, scooping the coat back up from the floor. "Show me," he said shortly.

"Anything bigger around than this needs to be cut up." She held her hands about six inches apart.

"Got it." He went back out into the maelstrom, but was quickly back in with an armload of suitable pieces. "Build it up and get the cabin warm. I'll be a minute or two."

Lindsay started to speak, but Danny was a man on a mission, and he ignored her. With a shrug, she stoked up the fire and started the coffee. At least she had successfully stopped the whole case discussion.

Outside, she could hear Danny swearing as he chopped wood. She wanted to tell him to hit it hard in the centre: the wood was cold enough that one good hit would cause it to shatter, but then she heard his shout of triumph, "Boom! That's what I'm talking 'bout!"

She grinned. He'd figured it out.

She grabbed a cookie and went back to sit on the couch, where she could watch him through the small window. He was concentrating hard, pushing his glasses back up his nose after every hit, carefully measuring each new piece of wood, then rearing up with the maul, letting it fall heavily down, and shouting when the log fell to pieces. He got through most of the wood he had brought over from the pile in an impressively short time, stripping off the coat as he worked. Lindsay had to admit it was no hardship to watch him, muscles straining, sweat running off him in beads, but a grin from ear to ear. Pure testosterone.

She sipped the cup of coffee she had fixed herself – it had smelled too good to pass up for tea – and asked herself why she was so reluctant to talk through the case with Danny. She always talked through her cases with Danny. Even when they were irritated with each other, sometimes especially when they were irritated with each other, their minds seemed to jangle and spark together. She thought better when he was there to mock, to coax, to question, to challenge her. So why not work this like a case?

The answer was surprisingly simple. He had offered her, again, unconditional support and comfort, a shoulder to cry on.

And _damn_, but she was tired of crying in front of Danny.

She narrowed her eyes as Danny picked up one last, huge log, and looked at it consideringly. He tested it, turned it, flipped it the other way over, then raised the maul and brought it down just off the centre. The maul bounced, jarring him. Lindsay winced at the shock to his arms; she had done that in her time.

He scowled, shook out first one arm, then the other, moved the log, and hit it again. It resisted him again. This time, he raised a hand to his jaw; obviously he had made the mistake of clenching his teeth before trying this bad boy again.

"One more time," Lindsay found herself thinking. "If it can resist him one more time, so can I. If he doesn't break it this time, I can deal with this as a mature adult, a forensic specialist, an expert witness, not a traumatized little girl. Fail one more time, Danny Messer, and I know I can beat you too."

He squatted down to look at the log, probing a narrow crack that had split down one side. He laid the log lengthwise on the porch, that crack facing up. He glanced around and found a smaller axe, one Lindsay had planned to use to split kindling if she made the mistake of letting the fire go out. He dropped the hand axe into the crack, then tapped it with the maul, patiently using it as a wedge to break the log in two, exposing a huge knot in the centre which had been resisting the brute force he had used before. He looked up into the window, his cheeks creased in a smile of satisfaction, and showed her the pile of split, stacked wood.

Lindsay smiled back a little weakly, and rested her head on her hand. "Resistance is futile," she whispered.


	54. Chapter 54: Memento Mori

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: As always, thanks to my reviewers and readers, both new and old! I love hearing what you like and want to see and know more about. Lindsay and Danny are together, but nothing comes easy to people with complicated lives. _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 54: Memento Mori

_But of all these friends and lovers_

_There is no one compares with you_

_And these memories lose their meaning_

_When I think of love as something new_

Lindsay moved slowly back to the stove and poured Danny a fresh cup of coffee, fixing it the way he liked it. He breezed in through the door, arms full of split logs, which he dropped by the stove. He hung up his coat on the back of a chair, moving it close to the heat to dry off. He was grinning when he came up behind Lindsay, slipped his arms around her, and nuzzled his nose into her neck.

She squealed and pulled away. "That's cold, Danny!"

"So was sending me out there! Colder than a banker's heart out there! But at least we have enough wood for the next couple of days."

"Hmm."

"We don't?" Danny grabbed his coffee cup and took a sip, then pulled himself up to sit on the counter. "How much wood you figure we'll go through?"

"It all depends." Lindsay hobbled over to the fridge and pulled out a container of something from her mother's leftovers contributions. She didn't recognize it, but she doubted it could be bad. Diane Monroe had prepared it, after all.

"On what? Shouldn't you be sitting down, getting off that foot?"

"Stop bossing me around, Messer. I'll sit down when I'm finished. And," she moved towards him with a hint of a smile, "It depends," she stood between his knees and ran her hands up his chest, "On how hot you plan on keeping the bedroom tonight."

Danny swallowed hard, then threaded his hands through her hair and pulled her close for a kiss. He may have intended to keep it sweet, but Lindsay had different plans. She opened her mouth under his, and quickly sank his best intentions in a tidal wave of lust.

She felt a thrill of satisfaction when he slid off the counter, wrapped his arms under her hips, and pulled her up into his embrace, her feet dangling off the floor.

She felt a thrill of triumph when he turned with her in his arms and moved out of the kitchen.

She felt a thrill of chagrin when he dumped her on the couch and stood back, breathing heavily.

"Nice try, Linds. Don't move."

He turned away and picked up his coffee mug from the counter, taking a big gulp. At least, she thought with a grimace, she'd made his hands shake.

He went over to the pile of boxes he had brought in from the truck and searched through until he found one that was neither blue nor red. With a shudder, she recognized it as her case file, one she had carried around with her like a rock on her heart for thirteen years. He placed it on the coffee table in front of her, picked up her coffee cup and filled it, adding milk and sugar.

Every move was precise and controlled. He didn't look at her once. She closed her eyes, humiliated.

And then he sat down on the couch beside her, pulled her into his arms, kissed the top of her head and said, "I'll trade you."

She opened one eye and looked into his face. He looked worried and tense, the same look he'd had lingering on his face every time he'd been near her for months now, ever since she stood him up and then shut him down. She couldn't stand that she'd brought that look to his face again. Not now.

"Trade what?"

"A story for a story."

Her body relaxed against his, although she twisted slightly to look into his face a little suspiciously. "You start."

Danny didn't hesitate, "My best friend when I was seven years old was Tony Mancuso. Lived upstairs from me. Our mothers were laundry room acquaintances, ya' know?"

Lindsay nodded. She wouldn't have got that before moving to New York.

"We were in the same grade at school, and so they made us walk together, keep us out of trouble."

Something about Danny's wry tone told the rest of that story, and Lindsay laughed. "How'd that work for you?"

"Well, we usually made it to school. Eventually."

They were silent a moment, then without prompting Lindsay said, "Tricia. Tricia Collins. She was my best friend. We met in kindergarten. She lived in town, and I thought she was so cool. She had sneakers that lit up and a Barbie lunch box."

Danny began rubbing her back gently.

"She had really long hair when she was five; her mom had never cut it. My mom cut mine when I was three and kept it short until I was old enough to look after it. But Tricia was an only child, and her mother didn't work. So she was always pretty, you know? Hair French braided with ribbons every day and the most beautiful clothes. Mrs. Collins knit and sewed and dressed Tricia like a little doll."

Lindsay laughed a little shakily, "But Tricia loved horses. She came out to the ranch when she was six and tried to move in. She wanted to be a cowboy when she grew up. Wouldn't wear anything but jeans and t-shirts, made her dad buy her these cool blue cowboy boots."

She stopped, twisting her hands together. "Mrs. Collins never quite forgave me."

They were silent a moment. Then she sighed and looked at Danny. 'So what did little Danny Messer do on the New York streets?"

"Played ball." The answer was swift and complete.

Lindsay raised her eyebrows. "That it?"

"Pretty much. Tony and me, a bunch of boys from the neighbourhood. Stick ball until we got on teams, then the ballpark every day. Darryl Strawberry and Ron Darling were the only heroes we'd admit to. Batting cages until the street lights were on, pick up games that went for hours."

"Where's Tony Mancuso now?" Lindsay threaded her fingers in his.

"Dead."

She froze at the cold monosyllable.

"I'm sorry." She wanted to ask how, but his voice didn't encourage it.

"Don't be. Most of the guys I ran with are dead, locked up, or knocked up some local girl and took over their fathers' business. Only a couple of guaranteed ways off Staten Island, Linds: a paddy wagon or a box are pretty common exits."

"Or baseball?"

"That was another way." Danny blew out one hard sigh of longing for a dream as dead as the rest of his childhood, then brought Lindsay's hand to his lips.

"Grade … five. What did you want to be when you grew up?" 

"A world-class barrel-racer." She giggled when he looked confused.

"Yeah, I saw the ribbons and things in your room."

"When were you in my room?" She stared at him and was surprised to see a tinge of red on his cheeks. Danny Messer? Blushing?

"Explain this to the city boy, would ya? What kind of challenge is it to race a barrel? Doesn't it just sit there?"

It took several minutes and a demonstration with the coffee cups to explain the subtle intricacies of barrel-racing to someone who had never seen a stampede, even on television.

"Not that you really understand anything by watching it on TV," Lindsay told him. "You have to be there, in the middle of it all. The crowds and the smells. The animals. I traveled every weekend: through Montana and Oregon, into Alberta and even to British Columbia a couple times. Tricia and I raced until ..." Her voice faltered, but she picked up with hardly a drop in rhythm. "Then I joined an equestrian drill team. We were an exhibition team, did most of the big stampedes in the western states and Canada."

"Okay, those I have seen. In parades and stuff, right?"

Lindsay slew him with a look. "That's like saying that you've seen New York City because you have a postcard of the Statue of Liberty."

He laughed, "Point taken."

Lindsay closed her eyes for a moment, then took a leap, "First girl you kissed."

Danny didn't answer for a minute.

Lindsay looked at him, worried that she had inadvertently brought up a bad memory for him. He was frowning slightly, running his tongue consideringly over his lip.

"Danny?" she asked, a little tentatively.

"Which one?" He asked seriously.

"What do you mean?"

"The first one I kissed like this?" His mouth caught hers softly and tenderly.

"Or the first one I kissed like this?" His voice was hoarse, and this time there was dueling tongue and quivering desire, whipping her into a frenzy without, it seemed, him even trying.

"Or the first one I kissed like this?" Somehow, he did the impossible, blending the sweetness and the desire until she was breathless and blinded.

He broke the kiss and smirked down at her. "Mary Louise Kirkpatrick, grade 2. Rosa Fiorelli, grade 8."

She elbowed him, "And the third one?"

He ran his finger over her lips, his heart in his eyes, and she cuddled back into his arms with a deep sigh of satisfaction.

"Grade 2? A bit precocious even for a city boy, weren't you?"

"She was blond and beautiful," he answered simply.

"And Rosa Fiorelli?" Lindsay deliberately rolled the 'r', trying to make the name even more exotic.

He smirked down into her face, "Well, she was hot. And she was easy – do anyone for a sip of beer."

She looked at him with a tinge of shock. "You gave her a sip of beer and she had sex with you?"

He shook his head, still smiling, but his eyes were hooded. "Gave her a whole bottle – stole it from Louie."

They sat in silence, while Lindsay tried to assimilate that information. In grade 8, she'd barely known boys existed. All her friends had been into horses. Sex had not even been a topic of giggling, speculative conversation for another two years.

"What happened to her?" she finally managed to choke out.

"No idea," Danny shrugged.

There was a ripple across the companionable peace they had shared earlier, as if a cold wind had suddenly kicked up. Lindsay felt the shiver ooze through her.

"Cameron was your first, wasn't he?" Danny's voice was quiet, contained.

She sat, frozen, at the mention of his name. Then, like a river bursting its banks, the story of that day in the Science Lab gushed out of Lindsay.

The story was fluent and clear: obviously rehearsed over and over. Lindsay had been well briefed for the court appearance that had never come, as Forbes had pleaded guilty. She had polished and honed the story in the intervening years until it flowed like water over stone.

She appreciated that Danny let her run through it with out interruption, even though he had essentially heard it all before, back in New York, when she had returned from her first aborted trip home. His arms tightened almost painfully around her when she recounted how Forbes had pointed the rifle at her and said, "Bang." She got through the whole thing without a sob, without a tear.

"Is that all you need, Detective?" She turned in Danny's arms to stare him down, her hands on his chest. She was suddenly, blindingly angry with him for forcing her to do that, to go through that again. Rage flooded though her body, filling her with an edgy need.

It was only a move of a few inches, but this time they made the move in the same breath.

Mouths melded together: heat and light fused. She could feel his hands slide under her t-shirt and sweats, seeking warm flesh. She could feel the ridge of his erection against her and pressed close until he groaned. His restless hands pushed her t-shirt up over her breasts, thumbs running over the fullness until her nipples were erect, begging for more.

He struggled off the couch, and yanked her into his arms. "Not here." He pulled her into the bedroom, restless hands stripping them both as they went. She hit the bed and he was over her, lips tracing the curve of breast, of hip, then tasting her honeyed heat, making her come so hard the scream locked in her throat.

He soothed and gentled her, whispering her name, then driving her over again with his fingers. She was sobbing now, hands fisting in the bedclothes as she came back down. He pulled the blankets over them as he kissed his way back up her body.

"Danny," she pushed so he was on his back with her draped over him, and kissed him sweetly, tasting herself on his lips. His hand tangling in her hair, he closed his eyes and took the kiss.

"Cameron was my first kiss, my first love." She whispered it as she slid over him, velvet heat sheathing him. "You are the love of my life."

He stilled under her, letting her take him in further than she could have believed possible. His breathing caught as she pushed against his hands which roamed over her body, only to come to rest on her hips, trying to coax her into a faster rhythm. She resisted him for as long as she could, reveling in the control he allowed her. Her head went back as she moaned his name.

He rolled then, capturing her under him, entwining his hands with hers, taking her lips as he moved in time to their linked heartbeats. As he emptied himself into her, he answered her, murmuring, "My love. Siete la luce della mia anima. Lindsay."

They curled up together, cocooned in the warmth they had created, emptied and filled in the same moment. He pulled her into his arms, spooned against him, lips nuzzling her neck as he drifted off.

"Damn!" thought Lindsay, trying to catch her breath, "I am going to have to buy an Italian/English dictionary!"


	55. Chapter 55: The Colour of Dreams

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: As always, every review fills me with glee, and I appreciate all the people who are taking this ride with me – I'm having fun! This chapter is a little disturbing, but it sets up the next few, so you have been warned: the angst-fest returns! _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 55: The Colour of Dreams

_And ignorance and hate mourn the dead_

_It is believing, it is believing_

_But listen to the colour of your dreams_

_It is not leaving, it is not leaving_

_**She is kissing Danny. She can feel his hands on her ass, his arousal against her stomach. When she opens her eyes, though, it is Cameron kissing her, pushing her against a tree, forcing his tongue into her mouth, his hands hard and hurting on her. She pushes him and turns to run, but now she is in the Science lab and Cameron is staring at her with dead eyes, his head half shot off. He grabs her and kisses her again; she can taste the blood running down his face, see his brain pulsing in his broken skull.**_

_**She hears a shot, then another, and turns, her mouth still full of blood, to see a figure in a long black coat, holding out his hand to her. "Come on. Let's go." It is Danny; he has a shotgun in one hand and he pulls her down a street in New York. She doesn't recognize it, but she knows it is New York because no one notices that Danny is carrying a shotgun. He pulls her into an alley; she can smell garbage and decomp. "Why didn't you stop it? You could have." She can hear voices all around her, whispering in the shadows.**_

_**His mouth comes down on hers and she is back in the Science lab – her hands and cowboy boots are covered in blood and she can smell it on her skin. She looks up and stares into a pair of eyes: gray, ringed with black, looking worried but determined.**_

"_**Why can't you see me? You see them, don't you? Do you want to be like them? You didn't ever see me. It's my turn! Look at me! See me!"**_

Lindsay sat up with a strangled scream, breath rasping through constricted throat and labouring lungs. Her face was streaked with tears and she could taste blood.

"Linds! Lindsay, honey, it's okay!" She heard a voice, but screamed and struggled away when she felt hands on her body, scrambling back into a corner of the bed, her hands held protectively in front of her.

"Don't touch me. For God's sake, don't touch me." She knew she was begging, knew she should have more pride, but she couldn't help it.

"Lindsay, it was a nightmare. You had a nightmare, sweetheart. Take a breath. It's okay. It was just a nightmare."

She could hear the voice, soothing and calming, but couldn't tell who it was.

"Stavate sognando. Era soltanto un incubo." The voice dropped to a murmur, and she strained to understand it even as she felt a gentle hand running through her hair.

She flinched away, huddling against the wall. Sobs shook her body uncontrollably; she gasped air into her lungs but still felt as if she were suffocating.

She looked down at her hands, expecting to see blood dripping, but it was dark, and she couldn't see anything at all. Her breathing hitched again; she could feel a scream building and pressed the back of one hand to her mouth to stop it, rocking back and forth, keening softly.

She felt the bed give under her as the other person in the room got up and turned on a light in the next room, sending a soft glow over his alarmed face.

"Danny," she choked out.

"Lindsay," he reached out a cautious hand to her and sat with the full width of the bed between them, so as not to crowd her. "You were having a nightmare. Are you okay?"

She nodded jerkily, but didn't move towards him. His hand dropped to the bed between them.

"What did you say?"

"Sorry?"

"You were talking. Said something about _incubo._" She pronounced it carefully.

"Oh," Danny thought a moment, then said, "Stavate sognando. Era soltanto un incubo. Was that it?"

She nodded again, breath still heaving, arms crossed over her shaking body.

Tentatively, he pushed a blanket toward her, saying, "My grandmother. She used to tell me that. 'You were dreaming. It was only a nightmare.'"

"Your grandmother?" Lindsay took the blanket and wrapped it around her, still huddled in the corner, holding on hard to the sound of Danny's voice, trying not to hear the whispering in her head.

"She lived with us when I was little," Danny moved slowly, not towards Lindsay, but to pull a cover over himself. The room had cooled to the point that he could see puffs of condensation when their breath hit the air. "She spoke Italian at home always. Wanted us to know our father's language. Louie laughed at her, said he was American, didn't need to know nothing else." His face creased into a brief smile, "She said, 'Siete un ragazzo stupido piccolo con una piccola mente.' " He said it with an outrageous Italian flair, hands moving expressively. "He bugged me for weeks to tell him what it meant."

"What does it mean?"

"You are a stupid little boy with a small mind." He was relieved beyond measure to see her crack a smile.

"Is she …?"

"Died when I was thirteen."

"I'm sorry."

"You'd 'a liked her. She'd 'a cooked for you. Nona was famous for her cooking."

Lindsay smiled tremulously. The darkness had receded and the feeling was starting to return to her petrified body. Danny's quiet voice and undemanding presence stood between her and the horror her mind had taken her into. "It's cold."

"I'll put some wood in the stove, make some tea. Ya' okay?" He hadn't wanted to leave the room until he was sure she was all the way back.

She nodded again, but as soon as he moved out of the room, her heart started to race, and she jumped out of bed. Wrapping the blanket around herself, she followed him into the other room. He'd pulled on a pair of track pants, and was squatting in front of the wood stove peering in nearsightedly. Carefully, he blew on the handful of flickering coals, and started to put in a log.

Lindsay stopped him with a quick hand. "Too big. Try these." She handed him some smaller pieces and watched him carefully place them so that there was air around the logs and coals to encourage burning. Once the smaller pieces were fairly started, she handed him back the one he had started with. "A couple like this now."

He looked up at her with a grin, and her breathing stopped as their eyes locked. He flushed and turned back to the wood stove, closing the door and adjusting the dampers with fierce concentration.

The hand that had reached toward him dropped.

"It'll warm up in a moment." He stood and brushed his hands together, not quite looking at her. "Sit down. I'll make you some tea." He disappeared into the bedroom and came back out, shrugging on a hoodie and zipping it up, adjusting his glasses. "Cools off fast out here."

"I forgot to set the fire. I'm sorry," Lindsay started, but blushed when Danny turned away from her.

"Ya' all alone here?" he muttered.

She made her way to the couch and put her head down in her hands, teeth chattering. She could feel the nightmare drifting cobweb-like strands of nastiness through her mind. She knew none of it had been true, but could not get rid of the image flashes: of Cameron hurting her, of Danny with the rifle, of the blood.

She could feel her stomach twist as she tasted, smelt, felt the blood again. She bolted for the bathroom and made it to the sink just in time. She curled back miserably on the floor, sobbing and shivering uncontrollably. Her unhealed ankle throbbed in time to her still racing heartbeat.

"Lindsay," Danny's voice broke and he cleared his throat before trying again. "Lindsay, I put some clothes on the bed for you. Come on, sweetheart." He was so afraid to touch her, so afraid of seeing that horror-stricken look in her eyes again, but she refused to move, and he was more afraid she was going to freeze on the floor like that.

He squatted down beside her and hesitantly touched her naked shoulder. She pulled away for a moment, but then threw herself against him, knocking him to the floor. He landed hard, but with his arms wrapped tightly around her, pulling her into his lap, soothing and cuddling her, speaking soft Italian phrases, "Shh. È tutto il di destra. Non siete danneggiati. Il tesoro, è calmo. Shh."

She whispered into his throat, "I swore I wasn't going to do this any more."

"What?" Danny said.

She answered tiredly, "Cry."

He brushed her hair back from her face, "You can cry any time you want to."

"Don't want to." Her voice, exhausted and thin, was petulant and annoyed.

"I know. _Mia cara_, I wish there was nothing for you to cry about." He kissed her on the temple, and she was wracked with another sob, coupled with a bone-chilled shiver.

"Put on some clothes, 'kay? I'm going to make you tea and some eggs."

"What time is it?" Lindsay rubbed her eyes like a little girl, but managed to get up and move towards the bed.

"I don't know. 4 am, maybe?" He had no idea where his watch had gone in the night, but the stove had a digital clock and he had noticed it unconsciously.

"Oh Danny, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to …" She stopped when he turned away from her.

"Don't apologize." His voice had gone flat, and he rubbed his hand over the back of his neck.

She ducked her head. It hardly seemed fair. Didn't loving someone so much it filled your whole body mean you didn't hurt them anymore?

"Guess not," she thought.

Danny tried not to listen as Lindsay pulled on the clothes he had found for her, sniffing. He knew she was crying again, but as much as he longed to hold her in his arms and beat back the nightmares for her, he knew that was not his role here.

She'd told him in no uncertain terms: she didn't want to cry any more.

He could respect that. So he'd have to make sure she fought instead.

He went to the fridge and pulled out a handful of eggs, whipping them up in a bowl, adding a little water, and searching out a frying pan. No olive oil, of course, but butter would do in a pinch. Searching through the fridge again, he found some tomatoes and sour cream, and blessed Diane Monroe for her home dried herbs: a little basil would work. Fresh was better, but this would do.

By the time Lindsay had brushed her hair, washed her face, and dressed, Danny was setting a beautiful, fluffy omelette on the table, smothered in a tomato basil cream sauce. He poured a fresh cup of coffee for her and went back to make a second omelette for himself.

She was surprised to find that even at 4:30 in the morning, she was starving. Of course, they had missed dinner. And the food was heavenly, which might help explain her hunger.

By the time Danny sat down across the table from her, she was sopping up the last of the sauce with more of Diane's home made bread. He quirked an eyebrow at her, but devoted himself to cleaning his own plate to a similar shine.

She sat, drinking her coffee while he ate, then cleared the table and put the dishes in the sink, filling it with very hot water and soap.

"Leave those." Danny's voice was soft.

"I'm going to." Lindsay hobbled over to the couch, sat down and pulled the case box towards her. Then she looked up at Danny, her chin set at a determined angle he recognized. "Well? Are you going to help me?"

_A/N As requested, translation!_

_Danny says (very roughly): "It's all right. Nothing will hurt you. Darling, (treasure) be quiet."_

_I use an online translation programme, so this is ungrammatical baby talk. I apologize profusely to any actual Italian speakers._


	56. Chapter 56: It Took Me Years to Write

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thanks as always to everyone who takes so much time to review or PM, including some new people. If you're still reading, thank you!_

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 56: It Took Me Years to Write

_Dear sir or madam _

_Will you read my book?_

_It took me years to write, _

_Will you take a look?_

Lindsay dug through the box until she found the notebooks she had started writing in the weeks after the shooting. Every time she had been interviewed by another officer, investigator, doctor, or psychiatrist, she had gone home and written up a report. There were pages and pages filled with her neat printing.

Danny sat in a chair across from her, waiting for her to tell him what to do. She was chief investigator here: he was just the sounding board.

"Read through that; it's the report of the investigator at the scene. What did they miss, Danny? How did we not get that there were two shooters?" Lindsay bit her lip, impatiently shoving her hair behind her ears as she dug through the box.

Danny glanced through the report, then scrabbled around looking for a pencil and paper to start keeping notes of anything that seemed odd. For an hour, they worked through the files independently, trading files and statements with hardly a word.

Finally Danny looked up to see Lindsay staring at him intently.

"What's up?"

"Danny, Evans was there."

"Yeah, you said you thought he had been."

"Why is there no report from him?"

"He woulda' been a pretty new detective. Maybe he had nothing to add?"

"He would still have written up a report, wouldn't he? For the record? I mean, paperwork isn't just a torture device made up by supervisors."

Danny quirked an eyebrow at her, "I'm not so sure, Montana! I mean, Mac does seem to kinda revel in loading it on…" his voice trailed off and his eyes grew wide.

Then, he hit his forehead in frustration. "What an idiot!" he said under his breath, and jumping up went over to the corner where he had piled all the supplies. "Fucking, fucking stupid!"

"What? Danny, what's up?" Lindsay watched in confusion as Danny dug around like a terrier searching for a rat.

"Your brother." Danny grunted, moving another box.

"John? What about him?"

"Not John, Jamie. Gave me a report from Mac," Danny was head down, searching through the boxes. "Didn't read it."

Lindsay stood up to help him look, when he gave a triumphant shout and pulled out the sheaf of paper Jamie Monroe had handed him in the parking lot back in Livingston.

"Okay, here it is. This is the word from Team Taylor, Linds. They'll have answers to questions we don't even have yet."

Quickly he started scanning the report Mac had put together, handing each page to Lindsay as he finished. He flinched when he looked at the schematic Stella had drawn up, swore softly at Mac's hypothesis that Lindsay had not been shot because she had looked the shooters in the face, and silently handed over the page where Mac summarized Evan's original statement.

Lindsay took each page eagerly, running through each scenario with the team. She could hear Mac's cool voice in her head, see Stella's competent hands on the computer keyboard. With a rush of homesickness, she swore she could almost smell the New York lab.

When she got to the part about Evans having seen a second shooter, she put down the papers in shock. "He _was _there! And he said nothing! We worked together for nearly a week, and he just looked at me with that smug smile, like he knew something I didn't know. And all the time …" She leapt to her feet, and began to pace, ignoring the pain in her ankle.

Danny put out a hand to stop her, but then shifted back into his seat and sighed. Nothing short of a tranquilizer dart would calm her down now.

"I can't believe it. He was there; he saw the second shooter. What the hell was he playing at? Why didn't he go after the person he saw?"

"Why did no one follow up on his report?" Danny's voice was soft.

Lindsay's knees gave out under her, and she sat down heavily. "It was a cover-up? But why? I just don't understand any of this. I worked with them for 3 years, Danny. How could they look me in the eyes?"

"Who you looking at for this, Monroe? Olafsen came in 2000, 2001, something like that, right?" Danny was riffling through papers. "Evans, now. You said you never worked with him? You knew who he was though?"

"Yeah, he was a hard-ass. Known as a real stickler: follow the rules and nothing can go wrong, you know? I think he'd been in the Army a few years before he went into the force."

Danny grabbed Mac's summary, "Yeah, says here he was a private in the infantry for two years. So basically a grunt without much ambition."

Lindsay was shaking her head, "Not how he played it in the police force. He was the coming man when I joined; everyone wanted on his team. Tough, uncompromising, good at getting the evidence. He had an impressive record of convictions." She looked at Danny speculatively, "Perhaps too good a record?"

"What're you thinking, Montana?" Danny's heart rejoiced at the light in her eyes. His country girl was on the hunt!

She jumped up again and started pacing, talking it out just as she always did, "So the Captain at the time of the shooting was basically eased out, according to what I heard. He'd been around forever: knew everybody, great at going out to the ranches and having coffee with the neighbours, you know? He got elected over and over. Then this happened, and people started grumbling. He fought it for a couple years, I guess, but then it just escalated, and he stepped down for an interim sheriff before Olafsen was headhunted and brought in. People said Graham should have known Forbes was a time bomb; he should have dealt with things better, you know the sort of thing. I didn't see it, but I guess the media was at the school before the cops were."

Danny shrugged; that was normal in New York City.

"They were on the scene when the cops took down Forbes. Ran on the news for weeks."

Danny sat back, hands clasped behind his head, "So if they had the footage, why did no one notice the final shot must have come from behind? Forbes would have pitched forward with the force of the blow."

"Captain Graham tried to confiscate it, stop it from playing. Most of the news stations played one clip over and over, not that my mother let me see it. I heard though. They just showed the first bullet hitting Forbes." She wrapped her arms around herself, and Danny had to physically hold onto the chair arms to keep from going to her.

"Graham wasn't able to control the media, didn't really get a handle on the investigation. I mean, Forbes had clearly been the shooter, and everyone wanted it cleared up quickly, so I guess it makes sense that no one really pushed any harder than they had to." Lindsay was on her feet and had started pacing again. Then she shook her head, "But Evans reported a second shooter. They found the bullet casings from two guns. They retrieved bullets from the scene, from the …" she cleared her throat, "… bodies. And why were the ballistics reports wrong?"

Danny looked at her in confusion, "What do you mean, wrong?"

She turned to the box and pulled out files, "Look here. The original report was not completed, only lists bullets from Forbes' weapon. Says here it was a Win94."

"Yeah, most common hunting rifle in the States."

Lindsay grabbed another file, "But look here. After Forbes claimed to have a partner, the ballistics report was looked at again. Here it says there were _two_ rifles, both same caliber, both same _make._"

Danny nodded again.

Lindsay flipped through the pages of the report Mac had sent, "The files Hawkes looked at says that the second, unidentified shooter used a Win94, but that the other one, _Forbes_, used a Ruger 10/22. That was the gun they recovered at the scene, too, _not_ a Win94. Why is every report different? They couldn't have mistaken a Ruger for a Winchester, not when it was right in front of them! And, really, ballistics is hardly rocket science."

"So do you think the original file was wrong?"

She stared at him a moment, considering. "That, or someone went in and changed the files. But why? What good did it do?"

She peered back into the case file box, looking for another file, one listing the original personnel working on the case. Instead, she pulled out the yearbook Danny had found in her room, and thrown in the box without thinking when he packed quickly to leave the Monroe ranch.

"What's this?" Her face paled to a bone white.

Danny came around the coffee table to see what she had in her hand. "Christ, Linds, I'm sorry. I just glanced through it; I must have tossed it in there without thinking."

She looked up at him with a hint of shock in her eyes. "I … I didn't even know I had one. I guess maybe Mom …"

Danny sat down and put out his hand for the book. "You don't have to look at it, you know. It won't help."

She pushed his hand away, but gently, and sat down on the other end of the couch. Her hands were shaking as she opened the book, and smoothed the first page.

Danny stood up and walked over to the stove. He couldn't sit there without wanting to put his arms around her, and he was pretty sure she would prefer he not do that. He seemed to have this habit of making her cry. He could, however, make her tea and give her time.

As he filled the coffeemaker and boiled the kettle, he could hear her turning over the pages in the book. What did she see, he wondered? Loss and death, or happy memories she had pushed away too long? Friends and classmates, or only the face of the boy who had changed her life forever?

He made her tea the way she liked it, doctored up his coffee, and turned back to the couch, not knowing if she would be ready to face him, assuming she had been crying. He sat down beside her, placed her teacup on the coffee table and brushed her hair behind her ear.

"Linds?"

She looked at him, her eyes blazing fiercely. If she had shed any tears, they had turned to steam long ago. "Did you look at this?"

She had the book open to the black-edged pages he had looked at in her bedroom. He was not going to tell her his sentimental gesture of thanks towards Cameron Johnston; she already knew far too much about him for his comfort. He contented himself with nodding.

She hissed, "What a load of maudlin crap. These two?" She stabbed an angry finger at two of the young people who had died in accidents. "They decided to snowboard outside of the boundaries, fell off a cliff. One died instantly; the other froze to death. Two Search and Rescue volunteers nearly died tried to get them out. But these two? Killed a little kid when they plowed into a family sedan street-racing." She sat back, her cheeks flushed with anger, and snapped the book shut.

"I hardly think they deserve the same memory as Cam, Tricia, Laura, and Mark."

Danny debated keeping his mouth closed, but spoke before the final judgment was in, "Their families do, though."

She spun around to argue, but stopped at the look in his eyes. She took a deep breath, picked up her hot tea and took a sip. "You're right. You're right." She put up one hand when he would have added something, "Just leave it at that, could you, please?"

Danny nodded and leaned back on the couch, drinking his coffee and watching her carefully. "Tell me about them."

She stared at him a moment, then picked up the yearbook, and turned the pages rapidly. "Here's Tricia. Grade 10, like me. Best friend, still. She would come out on the school bus with me and groom the horses, muck out the stable. Every day, no matter what else was going on. In exchange, we boarded Firefly, her gelding."

She brushed a hand over Tricia's picture, "Still so pretty."

She flipped a couple more pages showing him two pictures, "Laura and Mark. Started going out a couple of weeks before… the shooting. I'd known them since I started school, but she was a year older than me. She was going to be a pharmacist. Mark and Cameron were both in their graduation year, same as Mick. Mark was going to go to Canada, to a veterinary college up there, in Saskatchewan, I think. His mother wasn't pleased, but his dad was from there, so Mark had dual citizenship. And he could get away from his mom. Mrs. Sorensen was always … difficult."

That was the mother who had gone after her, Danny remembered. Then gone crazy, according to Diane Monroe. And the Collins, Tricia's parents, had split after their daughter's death.

She turned the pages again, slowly this time, until she came to a picture of Cameron and her. It was a candid shot, taken in the late fall, the two of them sitting under the big tree in the schoolyard, laughing. She brushed her fingers over his face, too, and sat silent.

Danny said nothing, but his heart broke for her.

"I was supposed to go to prom. Mick was so pissed off that his baby sister was crashing his prom! Cameron and I had been going out six months. He had been accepted to CalTech, but had changed his mind. He was going to stay in Montana, go to State. He was going to wait for me. He told me that day, under that tree. I told him I loved him."

She looked at Danny, her eyes filled with sorrow, but no tears. "I know now we were too young. It wouldn't have been the happily-ever-after it looked like. But for that morning, for that moment, it was perfect."

Danny reached out a hand and ran his finger down her cheek. "It will always be perfect, Lindsay: un momento di perfezione."

She turned her face into his hand, and moved around so that she was cradled in his arms. He handed her the tea he had made, and she started looking through the book, her heart a little eased.

She turned to the section on clubs, and Danny laughed at the rural nature of some of them: the Snowmobilers Club, 4-H Club, Young Farmers of America. She stopped when she came to the Biathlon Club and frowned.

"Montana? What is it?" Danny looked down at where her finger was pointing and read Justin Forbes' name. His fist clenched unconsciously. "Biathlon? What's that?"

"Combination cross-country skiing and marksmanship. We had a great team – nothing compared to when John McKim was on it, though. He was world-class."

Danny's other fist clenched, not so unconsciously this time. "And Forbes was on it?"

"I guess, though I don't remember ever hearing his name. He couldn't have been much good. But Danny, look who else was on the team." Her finger moved and pointed to another name under the team picture.

Danny double checked, then looked Lindsay in the eyes, startled. His lips moved, but she beat him to it.

"Boom!" She said softly.


	57. Chapter 57: I Knew the Answer

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Well, I don't know. After being called rude, mean, evil, and cruel, I'm not sure I want to play any more. Any death threats after this chapter and I'm taking my ball and going home. I mean it! Don't MAKE me come out there! _:-)

_On the other hand, over 900 reviews? Changed my mind: you guys can say what ever you like. As long as you review! Stick with me, kids – it'll all end soon!_

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 57: I Knew the Answer

_And though she thought I knew the answer_

_Well I knew what I could not say._

_And so I quit the police department_

_And got myself a steady job_

_And though she tried her best to help me_

_She could steal but she could not rob_

_Didn't anybody tell her?_

_Didn't anybody see?_

_Sunday's on the phone to Monday,_

_Tuesday's on the phone to me_

The alarm rang, startling Sheldon from a sound sleep. Groaning, he rolled over in bed and slapped at the offending clock, knocking it to the ground. He swore, but without any real fire to it, and rolled out of bed.

After a cold shower and a hot coffee, he was able to open his eyes. Damn, he should be used to this by now. After all, he basically gave up sleeping when he went into med school.

He wandered into the bedroom and pulled out his jogging clothes. He had a blessed eight hours all to himself, and he was going to do whatever he felt like. The day was just beginning, a cold, sunny New York morning, and he had nothing to do and no one to please but himself.

Automatically, Shel checked both his land line and cell phone for messages while he booted up his computer to double check for email alerts. It wouldn't matter, he assured himself; the last thing he was interested in doing today was work.

He had no messages on his home number; the only one who used that was his mother in Harlem, and she only called when something was wrong, preferring to keep him up to date with his widely spread family at a weekly dinner meeting. He would see her in a couple days and catch up.

His cell phone had messages from Sid, from Mac, and from John Monroe. He ignored the messages from Sid and Mac: work-related but not emergencies, he diagnosed by their voices. Time enough to deal with those issues when he actually got to work.

The one from John Monroe was quite intriguing, though. He recognized the voice right off, but Monroe had left nothing to chance, automatically leaving his full name and title before telling Hawkes that he had emailed him video clips of the Montana shooting in 1995, as well as some other details Monroe had dug out of various files.

Hawkes checked his watch; it was only 6 am in Montana. Probably phoning now was not a good idea. He opened his email account and clicked on the first of the files Monroe had sent him.

An hour later, Hawkes sat back in his chair, stunned. No one – no one – could have watched this video and not known there was a gunman behind the Forbes boy. He had watched over and over, from several different angles: Monroe had managed to get tapes from four different sources, all positioned slightly differently. In every case, the body of the teenager told the story.

"First hit," Hawkes murmured as he replayed the sharpest of the four versions. "Forbes takes one in the left leg: stops him cold. He raises his rifle. Two hits from the right," he drew an imaginary line from two different police officers to Forbes' right side, "Shoulder and upper arm." Had Forbes still been moving, those shots could have spun him back and around, making the final shot in the spine more possible. The cameras clearly showed him jerk, dropping his weapon, but not spin.

"Fourth shot, in the abdomen, doubles him over," Hawkes advanced the footage frame by frame and froze on the final shot, "and fifth takes him out."

The young boy in the frame threw his arms up, arching his back, but continued to fall forward as Hawkes let the video run to its conclusion.

Hawkes read through the information Agent Monroe had sent again. There were media statements from Sheriff Graham, and from the parents of two of the students. The Collins, the Sorensens, and the Monroes, Hawkes was unsurprised to see, had refused to give statements. The mayor and city council, however, had been all over the media; it must have been an election year, Hawkes thought cynically.

He looked at the phone again. "Is nearly 7:30 in the morning too early to phone Montana?" he wondered. Then he shrugged. "Only one way to find out."

He dialed the number Agent Monroe had left on, and on the other end, the phone was picked up before he even heard it ring.

"Lindsay? Danny?" The woman's voice was strained, but not quite hysterical.

"No, ma'am. I'm sorry to disturb you so early. This is Sheldon Hawkes from the New York …"

"…Crime Lab, and you were a doctor, then an ME and now a CSI, isn't that right? I'm Diane Monroe. Have you heard anything from Lindsay or Danny?"

He found himself shaking his head as if she could see him. "No, ma'am. I'm sorry. I was hoping to talk to John Monroe?"

"Oh." He could hear the deflation in her voice, but it lasted only a moment before her voice brightened again. He found himself seeing Lindsay in his mind's eye: her 'brave smile' he thought of it – the one which did not reach her eyes, but may fool some into thinking everything was fine. Now he knew where she got that habit from, he thought.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Hawkes, he has already left to drive into Bozeman. I'll give you his cell number; he has one of those hands-free phones so I don't have to worry about him on the road. Just a moment, and I'll get it for you."

Sheldon heard the phone rattle as Lindsay's mother put it down; then a few minutes later, she came back to the phone, and read out the cell number. "He only left about fifteen minutes ago, which means he won't make it to Bozeman for about half an hour. You should have time to talk to him."

He said gently, "Mrs. Monroe, how are you holding up?"

There was perfect silence on the other end of the phone, and suddenly Sheldon realized she was sobbing.

"Mrs. Monroe? Is there anything …?" He stopped in dismay. What on earth could he do from New York?

"I'm sorry, Doctor. I feel like a perfect fool. But we haven't heard anything from them since they left yesterday morning, and I knew we wouldn't – I mean, I'm not stupid – but I just didn't know what this would feel like and I'm not used to not knowing." The distraught woman took a deep breath, then murmured another apology.

Sheldon took a deep breath, and offered the comfort that he could, "Mrs. Monroe, Lindsay is one of the bravest, smartest people I know. So is Danny Messer. Together, they make a great team. If there is any way for them to keep each other safe, believe me, they will."

"Thank you, Dr. Hawkes. I hope, when this is all over, I'll get to meet to some of Lindsay's friends in New York. I am glad that she has such good people in her life."

Sheldon made some other comforting remarks, and hung up as soon as he reasonably could. He ran a shaking hand over his face; families were one reason he had left the hospital. Dealing with the emotions and struggles of people broken by death had been increasingly difficult for the young man he had been when he started in medicine.

Death. He stopped dialing the number given to him by Diane Monroe and counseled himself out of that mindset before talking to Lindsay's brother. He couldn't help the sense of foreboding, though. Last night, when Mac had put a time limit on the investigation, Shel had understood, even to some degree agreed with the decision.

Now he was just glad that he had no plans to ever again be in the position to make those kinds of life and death choices.

He hit the last number and waited for John Monroe's crisp response.

"Agent Monroe, FBI."

"Monroe, Sheldon Hawkes here. I got your message and have reviewed the clips." Hawkes automatically used his professional demeanour to push back some of his concerns.

"Doctor! Thanks for calling. I'm on my way in to meet with the Bozeman police; anything you can give me would be a help."

"You already know most of it if you watched these clips before sending them to me," Hawkes continued to watch the last clip run as he talked; the one he had analysed had finished while he talked to Lindsay's mother, but the next one had started running automatically.

"I did, yes. Give me your impressions to add to my own," Monroe's voice matched Hawkes' in professional tone.

Quickly, Hawkes ran through the sequence of shots and actions. He continued to watch the footage rather idly as Monroe clarified the points he would need to use with the Bozeman force.

"Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Monroe, did you watch all the footage from," Hawkes checked the tag on the clip, "from KXLF in Butte?" He sat forward, peering closely at the screen on his computer, tapping at keys to zoom in.

"Most of it, I think. Why? What did you find?" Monroe's voice sharpened.

"After Forbes was down, the camera man kept rolling tape. He followed a detective who was going in a different direction than the others. Shit!"

"What? What? Fuck, Hawkes, you nearly made me go off the road! What do you see?" Monroe's FBI voice slipped a bit.

"There he is. The other kid in the black coat. Come on, man, just turn a bit more, a little more: Got him!" Hawkes yelled triumphantly. "Monroe? You still on the road?"

"Hell! Just barely!" the agent growled. "Who is it?"

"Well, that will be up to you to figure out, but I am sending you the capture now. You should have it in your inbox by the time you roll into the station."

"Roger that, Hawkes. And hey, Doc? Thanks. From all of us." Monroe hung up before Hawkes could answer him.

Sheldon leapt up from the cramped position he had been holding over the computer for the past – he checked the clock – nearly two hours. He stretched and groaned: so much for not working.

As he went into the kitchen to make fresh coffee, he heard a message being delivered to his email. He still had some deep searches out on the Bozeman police roster, so he wandered back, coffee cup in hand, and clicked on New Message.

What he saw had him reaching for his cell phone so fast, he nearly ended up with a lapful of coffee.

Without thinking, he hit speed dial for Stella's home number. Still, he was a little surprised to hear her voice answer the phone.

"Hi Stel, it's Hawkes. I have some new information about the second shooter in Montana. Is Flack there?"

There was a deathly silence on the other end of the line, just long enough for Sheldon to curse. Got a little ahead of himself, hadn't he?

"What exactly makes you think Don Flack would be here?" Her voice was cold and imperious: Empress Stella, he thought to himself. A little less dangerous than Hurricane Stella, but only briefly. The force of nature could kill you in a minute; the politician would plot your demise while carrying on a pleasant conversation.

"Umm – nothing?"

"Shel!" The warning in her voice was not lost on Sheldon.

"Would you believe extra-sensory perception?" he asked. "Look, Stella, can you yell at me about this later? I really need to talk to Flack. Are you going to force me to hang up and phone his cell phone and pretend I don't know he's at your place?"

Stella huffed into the phone, but a moment later, Flack's crisp voice was asking, "What's up, Doc?"

"Ha ha. Wait all year to use that one?"

"Most of my life, actually. What've you got?"

"Do you have access to a computer?" Hawkes was downloading information as he spoke.

"If Stella ever speaks to me again after you pissed her off, probably. Did you find something?"

"Not something, someone. Check your mail, then call me back. I'm going to call Mac."

He hung up on Flack, who was still sputtering, and speed dialed Mac's cell, determined not to make the same mistake twice.

"Taylor." Mac's voice was decisive, "What do you need, Hawkes?"

"Check your email, Mac. I sent you, Flack, and Agent Monroe some info. I need your confirmation; I've been staring at this so long I may be seeing things."

He could hear Mac moving across the room, but his phone beeped with an incoming call. "Mac, I'm putting you on hold; Flack is on the line."

He switched to Flack's call, "What do you think?"

Flack whistled, "Holy shit, Doc. It looks to me like you got him."

"Hold that thought," Hawkes switched back to Mac. "Well?"

Mac's voice, unlike Flack's, held little emotion, "You contacted Monroe?"

"Sent him the picture while I talked to him, then copied him on all the info I just sent you and Flack. He should be getting it any minute; he was on the road into Bozeman when I talked to him. You think it's solid enough?"

This time, Hawkes heard the crack in Mac's cool demeanour, "Nice job, Shel. I think you've done it."

"Let's hope the Bozeman boys can finish it," Hawkes said, a little grimly


	58. Chapter 58: So Hard to See

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Sorry, some formatting problems held this up – this site doesn't like even FAKE email addresses! It doesn't look as pretty as I had planned, but you may forgive me (or not!)._

_Thank you so much to all my wonderful reviewers again, even if most of you just upped the threat factor! I promised you would learn something here. And I always keep my promises: eventually! Enjoy; whether you are responding or just reading – you are all appreciated._

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 58: So Hard to See

_He say "One and one and one is three"_

_Got to be good looking 'cause he's so hard to see_

_Come together right now over me_

John Monroe pulled into the parking lot at the Bozeman Police Station, pulled his laptop out of its bag, and booted it up. While he waited, he checked his cell phone for messages. No one had heard from Lindsay yet. That morning, he had felt his mother's strain and worry like carbon dioxide gas in the house: a constricting of the veins, a headache hovering just behind the eyes.

He closed his eyes a moment. Not for the first time, he missed his team. He wasn't used to doing this on his own. The day before with Messer had felt strange, but good. They had played the sheriff and his boys like rock stars. He hadn't expected to like any one who came into Lindsay's life, "And I'm not saying I like him now, cocky New York bastard," he grumbled to himself.

Still, the game had been fun. If you're going to piss in someone else's sandbox, it's nice to have a lookout.

Now his sister was stuck in a blizzard in a remote cabin that he had put her in, fighting for her life, whether she knew it or not, with nothing but a loud-mouthed New Yorker for back up.

"And a couple of guns," he reminded himself. After all, the Monroe boys had done the packing. Their kid sister wasn't going to have any trouble defending herself. From Messer, should that prove necessary.

He heard the message alert beep and opened his eyes. Automatically checking his work email first, he swore softly. His supervisor was sympathetic, but getting antsy. Two big cases had come in, and Agent Monroe was needed as soon as possible. Could he give an ETA for his return?

Groaning, John logged out of that account without answering the question, opened the address he had given Hawkes and the New York team, and blinked when he saw several messages in the inbox.

"Well, well, Doc. Looks like you called in the cavalry here." He opened the first message, which included the picture Hawkes had captured off the TV footage. He blinked again, and his face broke into the kind of smile no one really wants to be across the table from. "Now, who do we have here?" He copied the .jpeg onto his flash drive, and added the documents Hawkes had sent in a subsequent message.

Then he opened the messages from Bonasera, Flack, and Taylor. Essentially, given the differences in language, they had the same message.

From: Stella Bonasera

To: John Monroe

Subject: Montana Manhunt

Hi John!

Looks like Shel broke the case for you, but tell the Feds to keep their grubby mitts off; he's all ours!

Take this guy down hard, would you? I'd hate to have to come out to Montana and show you how it's done. And while you're at it, rattle the rest of them good too.

Give Lindsay a hug and kiss for me when you spring her from the deep freeze, and don't take anything Danny says too seriously. He's one of the good guys. I mean the really, really good guys.

Next time you're in town, give us a call – we'll show the REAL New York!

Stella

From: Don Flack, Jr

To: John Monroe

Subject: Take down

Monroe – figures it took a New Yorker to work this one out! I expect to hear the screams from the suspect from the Rockies all the way to the five boroughs, got that? Let's what you Feebs can do on your own.

Tell Linds we're rooting for her, and let Danny know the King is still dominating the ice. If you come to the Big Apple, we'll show you why the Rangers whip the Capitols every time!

Anything more you need, just let us know – happy to solve your cases for you!

Don Flack Jr.

From: Mac Taylor

To: John Monroe

Subject: Monroe case/Montana

Agent Monroe:

I hope that you have received all the pertinent information provided by Dr. Sheldon Hawkes. Please let us know if there is any further assistance we can provide the Federal Bureau of Investigation, or you personally, as you clear up this matter. Should it be necessary, I will ensure that Dr. Hawkes is available to testify to the collection and interpretation of the evidence.

I very much hope to have both Detectives Monroe and Messer safely back in New York City as soon as possible. Naturally this has been a difficult time for them; I am sure Detective Monroe will be very relieved to have the case put to rest and her association with it finished.

Please let Lindsay in particular know we are thinking about her.

Mac Taylor

Nice to see a touch of the human in Taylor at the end there, John thought. He grinned at the offers from Stella and Flack and thought one day, he may take them both up on it.

"Okay, Monroe, get your game face on. This is the last play, and it's for the whole enchilada." John pulled the flash drive out of his laptop, straightened his tie, and put the FBI face on as he swung out of the car.

Just as he had done the day before, he swung through the police station as if he owned it, ignoring the bleating underlings the same way he would have brushed off insects. His shoulders twitched a little uncomfortably under the well-cut dark suit he was wearing; he felt the lack of back up, and wondered briefly if he should have brought Jamie and Mick with him. But they had no official standing, and their presence could have done more harm than good, especially as he had not told his parents just what danger Lindsay could be in.

"Yeah, well, she's got her own bodyguard on site, and he better be just guarding that body or there's going to be hell to pay." His face grew grimmer at the thought, so by the time he hit the door to Olafsen's office, he was as frightening a vision as a man with a guilty conscience could want to see.

It certainly seemed to strike Olafsen that way, as he flinched back in his chair when Monroe walked around the desk to insert his flash drive into Olafsen's computer.

"John? Nice to see you. Can I help you with something here?" It would have been convincing if Olafsen hadn't been gibbering a bit, words tumbling over each other.

"We need to talk, Bob. But first, you need to see this information."

Monroe scrolled through the information Hawkes had sent: first he showed Olafsen the messed up, repeatedly incorrect ballistics reports.

"Can you think of any reason these reports would ALL be wrong, Bob?" Monroe kept his face neutral: lawman-to-lawman for now.

Olafsen ran a handkerchief over his sweaty face, "Do you think I haven't been worried about this, John? For God's sake – this is my precinct here. This is Lindsay; you know how we feel about her. If someone is screwing up on my watch, by God, I will find them."

"Nice words," Monroe thought to himself. "Wonder why I'm not buying the act? Oh, yeah, because you did nothing to protect her once she was obviously in danger."

"So you have no idea how these reports could have been wrong? Three times? Are we even sure that this latest one is right?"

He waited a moment for Olafsen to reply, but the older man just tightened his lips and looked at the computer as if looking for answers there.

"What about this?" Monroe opened the document with the ballistics report from New York, matching the bullet found in the Monroe field to the second shooter's Win94 shot in 1995.

Olafsen's eyes narrowed as he read the report thoroughly. "Where did you get this bullet from?"

"From my parents' field, where Detective Messer and my brothers found it after your men refused to go look for it. This is the bullet that was shot at Lindsay." His voice was cold and professional, but Monroe could feel his hands starting to shake. He stuffed them in his pockets.

"Again, Agent Monroe, you have my word. If this office is responsible in any way for the present situation, I will get to the bottom of it." Olafsen's ice blue eyes were pools of sincerity.

Monroe wasn't buying the pitch, "Whatever, big man. Let's watch you wriggle out of this one," he thought. Out loud he said, "This may help."

On the screen, he put up Evans' original report from the 1995 shooting, with his admission that he had followed a boy in a long black coat a few yards before following orders and going into the school.

Olafsen sat forward, jaw slack in shock.

Then he moved faster than Monroe would have given him credit for, grabbing the phone and yelling into it, "Get me Evans. I don't care where the fuck he is! If he isn't in this office in under five minutes, he can just keep his ass out of here for good!" His face was crimson with poorly suppressed fury.

Monroe said nothing, sitting back in the chair he had pulled forward when he inserted his drive. He was content to let this play out before he added the next wrinkle, which was the picture Sheldon Hawkes had captured from the media footage, together with some additional information. That would blow the top off of the Bozeman office, but it could wait a few more minutes.

"Let's see Evans bull his way through this one," he thought, a little smugly.

Evans arrived at the door, colour a little high and breath a little fast, but otherwise unruffled. "What do you need, Bob? I'm in the middle of an investigation here."

Olafsen sat back in his chair, "Good thing I'm not counting on you to bring it to bed, then, isn't it? You're off the case, Evans."

Evans' jaw tightened, and he sat down slowly. "What the fuck are you talking about?" he asked in a conversational tone.

"I don't keep people on major cases when they lie to me, and have been since they were given the case. Why didn't you tell me you had been there when the Forbes kid was shot?"

Evans blinked, "You had my statement."

Olafsen shook his head, "It wasn't in the file. Where did you guys find it?" He turned to John Monroe, whom Evans had not acknowledged in any way.

"It was in the file, but well buried inside another one." Hawkes, though, left nothing to chance, Monroe thought.

"You should have told me." Olafsen ignored the partial excuse given by Monroe. "Dammit all, Carl. I trusted you with this. And now I find out you not only were there and didn't say anything in all the briefings that we've held, but that you also actually saw the second shooter. What the fuck is that?"

Evans blinked again, and his skin greyed. "I didn't know for sure the person I saw was involved. Lots of kids were wearing those riding coats just then; it was a big fad. I saw the kid, started to go after him, then Graham called me into the school. I followed orders, sir."

Monroe sat forward, effortlessly gathering the attention in the room. "And did you recognize the boy in the long black coat, Detective? Did you know who he was?"

Evans' eyes flickered to the left before returning to Monroe's stern face. "No."

"Would this help?" Monroe opened the .jpeg Hawkes had sent him.

"Holy shit," Olafsen breathed it out in, Monroe would have sworn, genuine shock.

Evans averted his head as soon as the picture was clear enough to distinguish the unmistakable features of a very young Ross Adams.

"Adams was the second shooter. He shot Patricia Collins in the back as she lay on the ground begging for her life. He shot Mark Sorensen at least twice when he moved to protect Laura. He hit Lindsay Monroe in the head with his rifle butt, and then he walked out behind his partner and shot him in the back." Monroe's voice was calm and still icy cold.

His stomach was churning though: he had known all the kids vaguely, the way one does. But he had known Tricia Collins for nearly ten years, his kid sister's little riding buddy, four years younger than him, a bit bratty still at nearly sixteen, but growing into a beautiful and confident young woman. She had been a part of the family, and something in him had closed off when she died.

"Ross Adams, who was moved out of town to Billings, where he graduated three years later. Had a nice life: went to university, came back to work here. Had access to all case files, including yours, Detective, and was placed on this case by none other than you, Detective Evans. A position he obviously used to affect the gathering and processing of evidence."

"And last," John Monroe was on his feet now, bending over Evans in his chair, "But by no means the least, Ross Adams, whose stepfather was Chief Aaron Graham."

Evans put his face in his hands, but said nothing.

Disgusted, Monroe walked to the window and stared out of it blindly.

Olafsen lifted his phone again, "Get me Adams in the lab. Send him to my office, under escort."

His voice was uninflected, and he sat without moving as they waited for Adams.

A young woman in a lab coat came to the door, knocking tentatively. "Sir?"

"Yes?" Olafsen did not look at her, continuing to stare blindly into space.

"Ross Adams, sir? He didn't come in to work today. No one's heard from him."


	59. Chapter 59: Nobody Ever Hears Him

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Thank you again to all who are reading and reviewing. Your response to this story has been incredible: thank you for playing along in my universe! _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 59: Nobody Ever Hears Him

_Well on his way, his head in a cloud,_

_The man of a thousand voices, talking perfectly loud._

_But nobody ever hears him,_

_Or the sound he appears to make._

_And he never seems to notice  _

_But the fool on the hill,_

_Sees the sun going down._

A figure moved silently across the white landscape, arms and legs moving in perfect synchronicity. One with the equipment. One with the wilderness. That's what he had been taught. That's what he had learned.

He stopped, checked his bearings. He wasn't worried about being seen: the dull silvery gray of his ski-suit camouflaged him no matter whether he was in shadow under the trees or in the clearing against the snow. Not that he intended to be in the clearing. You didn't hunt your prey in the open. McKim had taught him that.

Of course, he didn't know he'd been teaching anything. After all, if you never see someone, how can you teach him?

But the invisible can learn. Have to learn. Otherwise, there is hell to pay.

The figure moved again smoothly, quickly setting and keeping a rhythm, a pace that would seem impossible to someone who knew him in his regular life. He didn't slow down as he entered the woods on the edge of the park; he knew how to find a pathway through the trees. Some would have been lost off the track, but not him. He'd gone off the track most of his life.

He breathed in the silence and the solitude of the backcountry; it was his only refuge. Everywhere else there was too much noise: people chattering like magpies, asking him questions, giving him orders. Never looking at him. Never seeing him.

Out here there was nothing: just the wind and the soft sound of snow moving like a living creature, falling from an overladen branch, settling into a hollow place. The winter cold filled his head until he could only hear the beat of his own heart, the purposeful rasp of his own breath.

Listening. That was what he did best. Listening when no one was paying any attention to him. That was easy. No one ever paid attention to him.

That was safer too. It was better not to draw attention to yourself. Attention was not always welcome.

He had heard the nurses gossiping about Lindsay Monroe and her New York cop when he was sent in to gather up her clothes. How romantic. How sweet. To be swept off to a cabin in the woods to wait out the case.

He laughed, a harsh bark of sound, breaking the silence under the trees. A clump of snow fell just after him, obscuring the tracks of his skis.

Wait out the case? He'd made sure they would never work it out. It was easy to be ever so slightly incompetent: never completely trusted, but never, ever completely blamed either. No one expected much of him. He made sure that was exactly what they got.

Like the clothes. It was so easy to just say they had been gone when he got there. Like the bullets. "Sorry sir, not where Detective Monroe said they should be."

He changed records, lost or mislabeled evidence, screwed up tests. Evans would roll his eyes and call him an idiot who only got the job because someone pulled some strings. Olafsen would look worried.

McKim, though. McKim had been suspicious. He'd taken care of that.

Stupid bitch. She'd had to come back, start asking questions. She'd owed him, damn it. He'd saved her. It wasn't his fault she'd come back.

The truck had been a good plan. He ground his teeth as he dug his poles into the snow to move a little faster. That should have worked. Just his luck that she looked up as he hit the accelerator. He'd flinched when she had looked straight at him. As if she'd remember.

She should have been dead. Who survives being hit by a truck?

The morphine drip was a stroke of genius. Too easy to do: she'd been zoning out; he'd simply pulled his sleeve over his fingers and spun the little wheel that opened the drip.

It should have worked. It was all the fault of that New York bastard. Why couldn't he have just stayed out of the way for a few minutes longer? It should have worked.

Now she was shacking up with that asshole from the city. Thinking she was safe. Thinking she'd get away with it.

He'd let her get away with it for too long. It was time to take care of business.

He stopped for a drink from the pack under his ski-suit, held against his skin to keep it from freezing. Just water; that was all he needed to keep going. He knew biathletes who carried whole packs full of stores, weighing themselves down; he carried his rifle, his ammo, his water. That was all.

Live small. Live another day.

Effortlessly, he started again. He knew he was getting near. It hadn't been hard to figure it out. He knew lots of people, had kept tabs on the Monroes for years, had access to all the information he needed. Find a family friend, one with a cabin not in use, plot out a trail. Took him less than a day. He knew he was right. He always knew.

"Think you're so smart?" He ducked; the voice in his head so loud he swore he could hear the heavy fall of footsteps coming up behind him. "Think you know anything? You're an idiot. Stupid little asshole. You know nothing."

He whimpered and swerved as he skied. It was no good; the voice was behind him. Always an arm's reach behind him. Hard hands. Harsh words.

He was almost there. Once he took care of this one last thing, then the voice would have to stop, wouldn't it? There wouldn't be anything else for it to say. It would have to stop.

There it was. The small cabin was covered in snow: lights were on and smoke was pouring out of the little metal chimney. He dropped to prone position and observed the cabin carefully. He was ready.

-CSI:NY- CSI:NY- CSI:NY- CSI:NY- CSI:NY- CSI:NY- CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Slamming the yearbook closed on the picture of Ross Adams sitting cross-legged on the floor in the Biathlon team photo, Danny jumped up from the couch. "We need to get back to town. We can tell them who it is. They'll pick him up. Case closed."

Lindsay stared at him, "His eyes. I saw them. When he pointed the gun at Tricia. I didn't know it was him; I thought it was Forbes. Justin's eyes were blue, though."

Danny sat down beside her again, taking her hands in his. "Lindsay, it wouldn't have mattered. Not at all. Nothing would have changed."

"And again, in the truck. I saw his face, just for a moment – his eyes. That's what I remembered when we were driving here, Danny. I did see him. He ran me over. And then," she had started to tremble, "In my dream. He was standing over me, saying that no one saw him, that it was his turn."

"Tell me. In the Science lab. You saw him? You recognized him?" Danny tried to keep his voice relaxed and easy.

"He came in from the back, from the supply room. It was in the middle of all the labs – they kept the equipment and stuff there. He – Forbes, it must have been Forbes – came through there. He was yelling."

"Did you hear anyone else?"

"Not then. He yelled at us all to get down on the floor." Lindsay had picked up the schematic Stella had created on the computer and was tracing the figures with her fingers. "I was almost behind the lab counter. See, Danny? If Stella is right, then Ross Adams came through this door," she shuddered as she said his name, "He couldn't have seen me clearly. But he had a clear shot at Tricia."

"You said Forbes yelled 'Don't!' Who to? Who did he yell it at, Lindsay?" Danny was focused on her face.

For years, she had done everything humanly possible to avoid ever seeing it again. Now, willingly, she closed her eyes as if to see it all again.

"If Forbes didn't shoot Tricia, but Adams did, then he must have yelled it at Adams. Forbes turned and shot at Laura – yes, _after _yelling 'Don't'. That means he didn't want Adams to shoot? Or he didn't want Tricia dead? I don't know.' She sounded like a little girl, her voice getting softer and lighter as she continued to speak.

Danny pulled her into his arms again. He couldn't listen to any more. "Okay. Okay, sweetheart. Look, Lindsay, we need to get back to Bozeman. Even Olafsen can't screw this up. And John will help us. Lindsay, we need to go." Danny couldn't say why he felt such an urgency; he just knew he couldn't sit here waiting for someone else to figure this out.

Lindsay looked up at him, eyes still a little blinded with panic and the lingering slick of nightmares. He pulled to her feet, and she seemed to come to.

"What about the phone?' she said practically,

He lifted it to his ear, "Dead. Maybe the storm?"

She nodded, her eyes not leaving his.

"Can we get out, do you think?" He looked out the window at the snow that was still coming softly down.

"You need to go try starting the truck. It may have frozen up."

"Didn't I plug it in to keep it from freezing up?" Danny ground his teeth. Stupid mountains.

"Doesn't always work. Go, see if it will start; I'm just going to wash the dishes and pack up our clothes."

Danny opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. Some things were really not worth the energy.

As Lindsay limped over to the sink and heated up the water again, Danny struggled into the layers of clothing he knew he would need to brave the storm again. Although the snow was lighter than the day before, the wind was high, and he wouldn't have a handy rope to guide him to the truck.

"Use the extension cord," Lindsay said casually, as if she had read his mind.

"Sorry?"

"To stay on track. Hold onto the wall until you get to the plug-in; then follow the extension cord to the truck. That way you can't get lost." She turned to face him, and he saw the banked panic in her eyes.

"Hey. Hey, Montana?" He put his arms around her, and hugged her, dripping hands and all. "It's okay. Siete calmi. We'll be okay."

She hugged him back, hard, and raised her face to him. "Go," she kissed him, "Come back."

He took her face in his hands, smoothing his fingers through her hair, and brought his mouth to hers softly, lingeringly.

"Now," he muttered, "I'll go. Be back in a minute."

She heard the door slam behind him, propelled by the wind. She saw him following the wall of the cabin, hand down low against the wall as he stomped through the snowdrifts piled up by the wind. She saw him pick up the electrical cord and follow it out to the truck she could barely see through the driving snow. She watched him as he climbed into the driver's seat and tried to turn over the engine.

"Come on. Come on," she whispered under her breath. "Come on, baby. Start!"

As she said the words, the engine caught and she cheered quietly as she put the last dish into the drying rack. She was just turning from the window to grab their clothes and bags – everything else could wait – when she saw Danny climb out of the truck and wave to her. As she waved back, she saw him suddenly lurch forward, a crimson stain spreading from his prone body across the pristine snow.

Then she heard the crack of a rifle.


	60. Chapter 60: Showdown

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Okay, **that** was funny! So many of you went from threatening my life to accusing me of trying to kill you! I hope this chapter makes you feel better._

_I have to shout out to marialisa who posted the 900th and the 1000th reviews for this story! That is amazing and you are all wonderful (even the ones who are still threatening me). I am speechless at how generous you have all been with your time and responses (well, you'd be shocked if I was really speechless, wouldn't you?)_

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 60: Showdown

_Rocky burst in and grinning a grin_

_He said Danny boy this is a showdown_

_But Daniel was hot, he drew first and shot_

_And Rocky collapsed in the corner_

Lindsay swallowed the scream that tore at her throat, dropped to the floor, and scrambled away from the windows.

Her mind went completely blank, but her body reacted in predictable patterns. By the time the door swung open, she was huddled in the chair in the corner of the room, tears streaming down her face. She turned her face to the intruder and spoke in a deadened voice.

"It was you. Ross Adams. Why? Why all this now?"

"Why Danny?" her heart moaned.

He eased into the room, eyes checking out the space, and stepped nearer the stove. "Warm. Very cozy." He kicked the woodpile Danny had built up, and Lindsay jumped at the sound.

She wanted to shout at him not to touch it, but that was foolish. It was too late. She'd seen the blood, heard the shot. McKim had been right, she thought, as the darkness threatened to fill her eyes. Danny had ended up like Cam. Just like Cam.

"What do you want now? Haven't you done everything you could to ruin my life?" That was better. Her voice sounded a little stronger as the rage began to stir.

"What the fuck are you talking about? I saved your ass. I knocked you out so Justin wouldn't shoot you. If I hadn't, you'd have been dead just like the rest of the assholes." Ross moved into the room all the way, unzipping his snowsuit against the warmth in the room. He'd left the door open though, and Lindsay, caught in the draft, was beginning to shiver.

"Why did you do it, Ross? I get why Justin did – to pay us back for keeping him off the Science Team. It was a sick and fucked up reason, but at least he stood up. At least he tried to explain it. What about you? Thirteen years you hid behind his wheelchair? A wheelchair you put him in?" Lindsay said, scornfully.

In her head, she could hear Danny, "Go slow, Montana. Take it easy. You want him to talk. You want to draw him out. Someone's on their way; you can feel them. Just keep him talking." She sobbed once at the sound. Danny. His blood on the snow. If he had just listened to her in the diner, just, for once, done what she told him…

Ross held his rifle loosely by his side, but Lindsay was under no illusions that she was safe. She had hung around target practice enough to know how fast a trained marksman could get into position when he had to, and Ross was a more than competent marksman. He walked over to the couch and sat down heavily.

"Don't talk about him like that. You don't get to talk about Justin."

She stared into his eyes, sitting at a slight angle to him, still curled up in the chair. "What else do we have to talk about?" she said, in an exhausted voice. "If you wanted to kill me without explaining yourself, you'd have done it by now."

"I don't have to tell you a thing, bitch." His voice, which should have been hard and angry, sounded uncertain, a little boy aping a man, pretending to be an adult.

"A dangerous and unstable little boy," Danny's voice counseled.

"No, you don't. You could just shoot me. Like you tried to before. It was you, wasn't it? In the field?" She moved ever so slightly, and stared into his eyes again.

He stared back, and said defensively, "It was dark. I wasn't ready. You'd gone out slow; I wasn't expecting you to race back. McKim said always aim ahead of a moving target." He narrowed his glare, looking tough, like a little kid sulking after being reprimanded by a teacher.

"McKim? John McKim trained you?" Lindsay almost laughed; that was irony for you. Danny had been sure McKim was involved – turned out in a weird and twisted way, he may have been right.

She nearly broke down at the thought that she would never hear him say "I told you so."

"He spoke to the Biathlon Team in the fall. He could have gone to the Olympics, you know. He was ranked number four in the world," Ross's eyes lit now with a disciple's glow. "He was that good. Then he got injured and couldn't compete. But he did something with it. The army recruited him. He was in the Middle East. He was Special Ops. He was a sniper and was after some of the biggest targets. When he came home, he did workshops and training sessions with us."

Grey eyes, with a black line around the iris. She knew those eyes; they had haunted her dreams for thirteen years.

She thought in dismay, "I saw him. I saw him. If I had just put it together then, if I had just told them then, Danny would be safe in New York. I'd be in New York. I did this. I killed Danny. Just like John said I would."

In spite of the agony whirling through her brain, Lindsay did not break eye contact for a moment with Ross. She was pretty sure Mac's supposition was right; Ross would have trouble shooting her in cold blood if he could see her eyes.

Of course, that didn't mean he wouldn't do it.

Lindsay took a deep steadying breath and started again. "How did you know Forbes?"

Ross startled, then sat back, his rifle now held across his knees. "We were friends."

"I never saw you." Big mistake, Lindsay realized, as his hands tightened on the rifle butt.

"No one ever saw me. I made sure of that."

"How come? Why didn't you want to be seen?"

"Come on," Lindsay urged him silently, "You know you want to tell me."

"Not safe." Ross continued to glance around the room, as if continually on watch for danger.

"Who wasn't safe? Ross, did someone hurt you?" As if she cared, her brain continued the conversation without her. As if his unhappy childhood made this heinous behaviour all right.

"Give him a chance," Danny's voice counseled. "You don't know what weapon he'll hand you to use. Keep it slow, and don't look away."

"Justin listened. He was my friend. The rest of you. You never saw me. You never looked at me at all." His voice was rising now, a little higher, a little louder.

"We should have seen you. We should have paid attention."

"We should have had you strangled at birth, you maggot," her brain commented.

"Justin wanted to be with me. He talked to me. He told me how fucked up people were, that he wanted to make them pay. We planned it, for hours and hours some days. Every step of the way, every detail. We stole the plans for the security system, to get into the lab. That was easy; the Captain practically gave them to me. All I had to do was tell him I wanted to be just like him when I grew up." His eyes were rolling in his head now, his voice rising and falling as the story fought its way out of him.

The final piece fell into place. She remembered her parents talking about Aaron Graham marrying poor Alicia Adams, whose first husband had mysteriously died in a hunting accident. He was a bad man: an abusive drunkard who had provided a fund of shocking and tantalizing gossip over the years. Graham hadn't wasted much time, people said, marrying Alicia only six months after Rick Adams had been planted in the local cemetery.

Speculation ran high that the hunting accident had been more act of man than act of God but, with the sheriff stepping into the family so quickly, speculation had remained just that.

"Ross, what was your Dad like?" Lindsay's voice was quiet, calm.

"Go ahead, take the risk. He's gong to kill you anyway," her brain hissed.

Ross leapt to his feet, the rifle held more tightly in his hands. "No, no, no, no, I'm not going to talk about him. He's gone. He's not coming back. He went away and he didn't come back."

"Why not? Why didn't he come back?"

"Is there something here I can use?" she thought.

"He went out with a gun and he didn't come back." Ross spoke firmly, as if he had said the same thing many, many times.

Lindsay recognized the tone of voice: Speak firmly, be sure, don't add anything, don't change your statement.

She said slowly, "Ross, did you have to testify? At the inquest on your father? Did you get up on the stand?"

"Million dollar question," Danny's voice joined the conversation in her head. "Did you kill your father, or did the sheriff?"

Ross stood almost at attention, and repeated, "He went out with a gun and he didn't come back."

"And before that? He used to hurt you, you and your mom?"

Ross turned away, still straight and stiff, "He taught me. He taught me to be a man, to be strong, to hunt."

And that, thought Lindsay, is why I won't have any choice. She adjusted her weight in the chair.

"Why did you shoot Justin, Ross?" she still spoke softly, moving her hand slightly, but never taking her eyes off Ross's face.

"I had to. It was the plan. He was going to kill you all, make you pay. Then when we got there, he wasn't going to do it. He was going to chicken out, so I had to show him. I had to kill that girl; he wouldn't do it. He was afraid of the blood. You can't be afraid of blood if you are going to kill things." Ross sounded very logical as he explained his decision.

"So I shot her, and then Justin shot the other one, the bitch who was running. That guy she was with, he ran too. We took him down together. Then Cameron. He never looked at me either. He was just worried about you. Justin did that. He shot him, and I hit you." His face was calm, although his eyes were still jittery, like a crack addict's. Lindsay eased back in the chair again.

"He was supposed to shoot two, and I'd shoot two. We were supposed to share. But then he shot that guy too. It wasn't fair. I was going to kill you, make up for it, but Justin said, 'Don't.' I don't know why, but he didn't want you dead. Or he didn't want me to kill you. So I just hit you."

He breathed in, a long slow breath, "He wanted the cops to kill him. He said that was how a hero went out: in a blaze of glory. But I could tell they weren't going to kill him. They aimed for his arms and legs, not for the core."

Ross looked at her seriously, "You have to aim for the head or chest, or you miss the kill shot."

"But you didn't. You hit him in the back, severed his spine. You left him paralysed, Ross. Not a hero. Just a murderer in a wheelchair."

Ross said simply, "He shouldn't have shot that other guy. He should have let me shoot you."

He sat down again with a sigh. "And you should have stayed away. Why did you come back? You started this whole thing again."

They sat a moment in silence. Lindsay could feel a thrumming in her blood, one that seemed to come through the chair from the floor.

"Keep him talking," Danny's voice counseled her.

"Your stepfather, Ross? Did he know? Did he see you?"

"The Captain? Why? He sent me away, did you know that? He sent me to my aunt in Billings."

Lindsay put her hand over her mouth to hold back her scream of rage, "He was trying to save you. He knew. He knew. How could he do that? How could he just let you go?"

The words came out in a whisper. The thrumming grew louder; she could feel it in her chest cavity now. Her ears were ringing with it.

Ross raised the gun. "He didn't know. It's not true. He took my mother. He sent me away. Don't talk any more. You don't know what you're talking about. Shut up. Just shut up." His voice took on a hysterical pitch, and the rifle was firmly pointed at her head.

Lindsay closed her eyes. Time was up. No one had come. She had been so sure someone would come.

"Danny," she thought. "I'm so sorry."


	61. Chapter 61: Be True to Me

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: Okay, okay! I apologize: four cliffhangers in a row, as people pointed out, is just unfair. Never mind: let's see if THIS helps! _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 61: Be True to Me

_In spite of all the danger,_

_In spite of all that may be,_

_I'll do anything for you,_

_Anything you want me to,_

_If you'll be true to me._

He fell face first in the snow, an explosion of pain flooding his body, pain so intense it stole his breath and scattered it on the wind. Vaguely, he heard the shot echoing over his head, and some isolated compartment of his brain connected the sound to the punch above his kidneys.

Lindsay was his first real thought, the only one he could hold onto through the white-light agony piercing his brain.

He lay in the frozen embrace of the drifts for a lifetime, a moment, he could not tell. He could see people hovering around him, hear voices, and frowned with the effort of trying to understand them. Finally, he summoned up the energy to move one hand. The movement stole his breath again, but he fought to get it back.

Fought and won. Two breaths, three breaths, and he had pushed his body up onto his arms and knees. He stayed like that, panting like a dog, for a long time. Too long. The thought of Lindsay filled every part of his brain that wasn't concerned with the immediate and all-consuming reality of pain; something was wrong. He had to get to her.

He couldn't see straight, couldn't figure out where he was. But under his hand was a cord, a line, and he began to crawl, eyes on the cord, never lifting his head, never questioning his actions. Lindsay was at the other end of this cord, and he needed to get to her. That was all he knew. That was all he had room for left in his head.

Sometimes, in later nightmares, he would see it as if from above, a splash of scarlet blood on the bright white ground, the small figure, dressed in a bright yellow and blue ski jacket, dragging through the drifts of snow. Sometimes, the dream would just go on like that for hours and untold hours. Sometimes, he would simply fall into the snow and suffocate, waking up gasping, tangled in the bed sheets.

And sometimes, on the worse nights, on the nights that had him hurtling awake stifling a scream and refusing to go back to sleep, the snow turned into blood, and he would look down to see himself crawling over the bodies of Cameron, of Tricia, Laura, Mark. And then he would look up, and see Lindsay's stricken face as he wallowed over the bodies of her friends.

He ran into the wall of the cabin hard enough to see stars. He had not lifted his head, afraid of losing his lifeline, of getting turned around and lost in the blank landscape. Slowly, he stretched his hand up the wall, dragging himself up with its support. He could see a small window, and he leaned against the cabin and tried to focus his vision to see what was happening inside.

Miraculously, his glasses had neither broken nor fallen off, but the edges of his vision were dark and foggy, not clear enough to get a good look. He only saw one thing: Lindsay in the chair, and the barrel of a rifle pointing at her.

He reached for his clutch piece, a small caliber weapon he had shoved in the back waistband of his sweats as naturally as he had pulled on socks that morning. Although no longer on patrol, he was rarely unarmed. With it in his hand, he pressed his back up against the wall, nearly screaming in pain as his abused body responded, every nerve ending quaking. He moved as carefully as he could, as quickly as possible, towards the open door, staying against the wall when he could.

As he came around the corner, he heard the unmistakable sound of a helicopter. He looked up, praying that it was a rescue and not a recon trip. Almost at the door, he heard an unfamiliar voice inside the cabin scream, "You don't know what you're talking about. Shut up. Just shut up."

Then his heart froze as he heard a shot.

"Lindsay! NO!" Danny screamed as he came through the open door, crouching low, his handgun ready, his lungs collapsing behind his words, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Training took over as he scanned the room for danger. He saw Ross Adams on the couch, rifle held negligently in one hand, the butt trailing on the ground, head back against the window. He could smell cordite on the air, still hear the echo of the shot ringing in his ears. He saw Lindsay spattered in blood, still curled up in the armchair.

The side of the chair was scorched and smoking. Her gun was held firmly in her hand, low down, between her body and the now non-existent chair arm, and her face was strangely emotionless as she stared at the body only feet from her.

"Danny?" She looked up, eyes wild with disbelief as he flew into the living room area of the small cabin. He was soaking wet, dripping blood, and white with pain, but he was on his feet.

In a flash, so was she, dropping the gun, running across the room to him, putting her arms around him. "Oh my God, Danny, I thought you were dead. I thought he'd killed you too. Oh God." The panic she had shoved down and used to her advantage in the confrontation with Ross came bubbling to the top like lava, and she sobbed out her relief against Danny's chest.

"I heard the gun go off. I saw him with a rifle on you," Danny muttered into her neck.

"I saw you go down. There was so much blood. God, Danny; you've been shot! Where? Where are you bleeding?" She stepped back and began running her hands over him, trying to find the wound. Her hands were quickly covered in his blood.

"Damn, Montana," Danny hissed in pain, then looked over at Ross. "He's dead? You killed him?"

She nodded shakily. "I saw you go down, and grabbed one of the guns from the boxes. I knew the boys had packed them. Then I sat in the chair and hid the gun under me. I tried to wait, Danny. I was hoping someone would come. I didn't want to kill him."

She began to sob in earnest, and Danny pulled her against him again. He couldn't see straight for pain; all he could take in was that Lindsay was alive and crying. He ran his hands shakily through her hair, down her back, trying to reassure himself that this was real. He could feel the scorched fabric against her leg; her effort had cost her.

"Bloody hell!" It was a heartfelt oath that pushed them an inch apart, and Lindsay turned to see her brother John in the doorway, followed by several big, armed men in body armour.

"So, you did have to shoot Messer after all. I knew he'd be more trouble than he was worth. Man, you're bleeding all over the place. You okay, peanut?"

"It was Ross Adams. It was him all along. I had to shoot him, John. I waited as long as I could." Her eyes were huge and she was as pale as the snow covering his feet.

"It's okay, honey. We'll take care of it now. Don't say anything, Lindsay, until your statement has been taken. You hear me?" John waited until he saw her nod her head in agreement.

"You two need to get out of here. Looks like Messer's going out on a stretcher."

Danny's knees had finally given out, and he collapsed into Lindsay's arms. Before he pulled her down with him, though, John had caught him and helped ease him down surprisingly gently. "We have MedEvac right behind us. Hold on there, Messer. Linds," he looked at her seriously, " Are you hurt? In any way?"

She shook her head, biting her lips anxiously as Danny went limp under her hands, his breathing fast and shallow. "John? He's unconscious. Do something!"

"Hold on, Peanut. Here're the paramedics. They'll take care of him. You have to move so they can get to him. Come on, honey." John pulled her to her feet and handed her over to another officer. "Get her on the helicopter. They both need to get to the hospital ASAP. Get a team there to process her. Bag the clothes from both of them. I need everything you get to go straight to me. Nothing to the Bozeman office." He snapped the order under his breath.

"John? " Lindsay took her eyes off Danny being worked on by the medics for a moment to look at her brother. "My weapon is in the chair. One round fired through the arm of the chair. Shell is probably in the chair still. You'll find the bullet in his chest. On the table? Ross Adams' confession. I had a voice-activated recorder on. By the truck …" her voice wavered, "You'll see the bloodtrail from Detective Messer. You may be able to trace it back and figure out where Ross waited…" her voice trailed off as the men working on Danny lifted him onto a stretcher and started to move to the chopper.

"You go. Be with him. Don't worry. I'll take care of the scene. No more missing evidence, Lindsay. You did it. You solved the whole thing. You put it to rest."

Lindsay's haunted eyes tracked from Danny, being carried out the door, to Ross's body, which was cooling in the frigid air.

"Not to rest, John. Not yet."

The officer beside her pulled her arm gently, "Come on, Detective Monroe. The chopper needs to go. Let's get you on there, okay?"

Lindsay let him lead her away, but she kept looking back at the cabin, even as she was helped into the helicopter, even as she was strapped into the seat, even as she struggled to shift in her seat so she could hold Danny's hand while the paramedics started a blood transfusion. Her eyes didn't leave the cabin until the helicopter rose, hovered above the ground for a few minutes, and then flew off in the direction of safety and home.

The noise of the helicopter filled Lindsay's head until she felt pounded, every turn of the blade stripping away her senses until she wanted to curl up into a little ball and scream. When the pilot landed the chopper on the hospital roof, Danny was whisked away from her and she was isolated in an examining room to be processed. Nurses walked briskly in and out, smiling sympathetically and soothing her with meaningless platitudes. An investigator was on his way to process her clothing and take samples of the blood from her hands and face, blood she knew would match Ross and Danny. "Blood brothers," she thought with a snort. Until all that was completed, she was not allowed to shower or even wash her hands, and she was immersed in the coppery smell and taste of Danny's blood, the blood and fluids of Ross Adams. No one would tell her what was happening; John did not come. The officer assigned to her knew nothing; the nurses wouldn't tell her anything. Her parents had been notified; her brothers were coming. It was a nightmare and she could not wake up.


	62. Chapter 62: Journey’s End

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_A/N: This is the final chapter of the story. I know there are still questions unanswered, and plot lines to follow. I hope to do that in a sequel. Give me a couple of days, though, could you?_

_There is no way to adequately thank all the people who have reviewed and questioned, suggested (and threatened) me throughout the past 10 weeks. Everyone who has responded has had an effect on how this story turned out. Thank you to all the people who read and enjoyed this story as well; I could feel your presence. _

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles. _

**It's A Long Journey Home**

Chapter 61: Journey's End

_Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting_

_Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear_

_Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,_

_and I say it's all right_

Time compressed and expanded meaninglessly. Lindsay stood by the window in the small room in the Bozeman hospital, leaning her head against the cold glass. She could hear people moving through the halls, machines beeping, announcements being made over the sound system, the hushed voices of nurses and techs.

She waited, utterly passive, utterly spent. There was no room in her for anything but a grinding, all-encompassing fear. She was beyond bargaining, beyond anger, simply holding the image of Danny in her heart and praying he would open his eyes.

Finally, an investigator came and processed her: scrapings, photographs, swabs, questions, questions, questions.

Finally, she was allowed to step in a shower and watch the remaining evidence wash down the drain. She turned the heat up as high as she could stand it, and stood under the pounding water, it seemed, for hours, flinching as the water turned red around her feet, wincing at, then ignoring the scorch burn on her leg from the gun shot. Finally, she changed into clean scrubs, as her clothes had been taken back to the lab.

It was the same shower, the same scrubs, the same smells and sounds and institutional babyshit-green walls. Everything was the same as it had been thirteen years ago.

Except her.

She walked briskly out of the shower, and straight into her mother.

"Lindsay," Diane said, enveloping her in a tight embrace.

"I'm okay, Mom." Lindsay pushed away as soon as she could. "Where's John? I need to know what's happening. No one will tell me anything about Danny or the case."

Diane stepped back, a little shocked by the cold voice and stiff response of her daughter. Then she looked into Lindsay's eyes and saw the blankness still wrapped around her little girl, and knew it for protection from the effects of shock. "Let's go find out about Danny, okay?"

Ted reached out and clasped Lindsay's hand tightly a moment, but followed Diane's lead as they went to the waiting room. Lindsay was held together by thin wires of determination and nothing else; pushing at her would only force her to come apart. Later, maybe, that would be the right thing to do. Right now, she needed help keeping it together.

"Wait here a moment," Diane said, "I'll go find Chris."

Lindsay relaxed a little at hearing Chris Martens' name; Danny and he had seemed to get along fine when it had been her in the hospital. She stood staring out yet another window while Ted sat looking at her helplessly.

"How did you know I was here?" she asked idly, all her attention focused on what was happening in the operating room.

"John radioed as soon as you were put on the helicopter. We were already on our way into town; Jamie and Mick are on their way." Ted looked down at his hands. He didn't want to give Lindsay any false hope or lying comfort; no one had told even Diane the status of Danny's surgery, just stared at her with grim faces and answered her with hushed voices. He couldn't think of another time Diane had been shut out like this.

"Lindsay," his voice broke a little, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Her voice was distant, as if she really wasn't paying attention to him at all. He could feel it; everything in her yearned towards the man who had flown out to save her, and ended up being the one who needed saving. Ted dropped his face in his hands and sent up a fervent prayer that Danny Messer would be saved. Losing one could lose them both.

They heard the sound of Diane's footsteps coming down the hall. There was little chance of mistaking her for anyone else; she always moved as if the world was put in place simply for her to stand on. She came around the corner and went straight to Lindsay, grabbing her hands.

"He's going to be okay, Lindsay. He lost a lot of blood, and they couldn't stop the bleeding at first, but they have now. The bullet was a through and through, and did some damage, but nothing he won't recover from. He was lying in the snow long enough to slow down the bleeding in the first place. He'll be weak and pissed off for a while. But if there are no complications, he'll make a full recovery."

As Diane was talking, Jamie and Mick came down the hall at a run. "Peanut? Are you okay?" It was they who broke her, her big brothers, the ones who had always protected her until they couldn't any longer. It was the look in their eyes that finally cut through the wall she had built up during the helicopter ride. She collapsed into her mother's arms and was immediately surrounded by her family.

Then it was bad hospital coffee, food snuck in from a fast food joint around the corner, updates from the doctor, check-ins with the police officer still waiting to take statements, more bad coffee from vending machines, sitting in chairs so uncomfortable they seemed to design to cripple people for life, waiting for another update, waiting to hear from John.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

She couldn't phone Mac and tell him what had happened until she had seen Danny for herself, and she couldn't be let in to see him in Recovery. She had to wait until he had been cleared for a bed in the ICU. Diane had bustled off as soon as Danny went into Recovery to make arrangements for a private room. Lindsay left her to do what she did best: arrange the world to suit her needs.

Finally, John Monroe showed up, FBI agent face firmly in place, to run through her statement. Ted opened his mouth to protest his son treating his daughter in such a stiff and professional manner, but Jamie's hand on his arm stopped him cold. Ted looked at Lindsay's face – a mirror of her brother's – and realized they were both more comfortable doing things this way.

Flanked by a Bozeman police officer and stenographer, John led the way to a room where they could talk privately. He placed a tape recorder on the table and stated his name and rank for the record. He read Lindsay her rights and asked if she wished for representation from either a lawyer or a union representative. She formally declined, and proceeded to give her statement lucidly and efficiently from the moment she had identified Ross Adams from the picture in the yearbook to the moment she had pulled the trigger and killed him.

John Monroe's face remained impassive throughout the process. Lindsay completed her formal statement and waited for the stenographer to complete a written draft of the notes, which she signed. Everyone in the room signed sworn statements verifying the process, the collection of evidence, and the information stated by Detective Lindsay Monroe. No one was taking any chances on this evidence going missing.

When that was finished, and the stenographer and other officer had left the room, John swept Lindsay into his arms and held on for dear life.

"Jesus H Christ, girl. When we figured it out – when we realized it was Adams and he was missing – then we got there and heard the shot…" His voice dwindled to nothing and he hugged her again.

"I didn't even hear it – the helicopter. I felt it, but I didn't hear it. All I could think about was Danny, and how McKim had been right. I nearly got him killed, John. Just like Cameron. I nearly killed Danny." She had begun to shake again, and she wrapped her arms around her body protectively to ward off the traitorous response.

John stepped back, hands on her shoulders, and looked at his sister, "I don't ever want to hear that again, Lindsay Monroe. You are not responsible for Justin Forbes' actions, or for Ross Adams'. This is on them, entirely on them. And Cameron and Messer did what they chose to do, too. Cameron loved you, and goddammit, I guess Messer does too."

He shuddered as he thought back to the evidence at the scene; in spite of the blood loss, Danny had managed an impressive turn of speed to get to Lindsay. He chose not to tell Lindsay about the coyote tracks they had found in the snow following Messer's blood trail.

He had something else he had to tell her, though. He put his hand under her chin and stared into her eyes, as if gauging how much more she could take, "Lindsay, about McKim …"

She clutched his arm, "What?"

"Adams had tried to frame him, making it look like he was behind all this. It was clumsy, not well done, mostly a paper and computer trail. McKim must have figured something out, though. We think he went to confront Adams this morning, before Adams took off to find you."

"Is he dead?" Lindsay's voice was hardly above a whisper.

"No. No, honey. But he got in front of Adams' truck when the guy ran. He's in a coma. The doctors … don't know what will happen."

Lindsay pulled air into lungs that suddenly seemed too tight to expand. "I need to see him."

John just nodded. He had already cleared this with the doctors.

Lindsay sat beside John McKim's bed and held his hand. "John? John, I know you can hear me. And I know you'll want to know. Ross Adams is dead. He was the second shooter at the school; Chief Graham must have suspected, maybe known, and did everything he could to protect him."

She clenched her hands in useless anger at the man who had put personal loyalty before the truth, then went on, "Adams shot Justin Forbes – to make him a hero? To punish him? I'm not sure – Ross wasn't very clear about some things. He admired you, though; he wanted to be like you. I think he framed you to make you notice him. He was … so screwed up, John." She closed her eyes, trying to wipe the look on Ross's face out of her memory. She knew it would never go away; she had looked into the soul of another person and seen a screaming, hurt little boy, viciously striking back against the dark.

She opened her eyes again and focused them on the man in the bed, "You taught me to watch, to plan. You helped save me out there. Don't die. I don't know everything that was going on with you. I don't know why you tried to get me to go with you, or why you chose that way to do it. But I know you wanted to fix this. Don't die, John. Don't stay wherever you are now."

She sat for several minutes more beside his bed, holding his hand and waiting for some sign that he had heard her. Aside from the machines monitoring and assisting him, though, she felt no sense of presence.

She stood up and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you for everything you did for me."

She would not let the tears fall. It felt too much like defeat.

When she walked out of the room, her mother was there again. This time, Lindsay walked straight into her arms and held on tight.

Diane soothed and petted for a few minutes, then took Lindsay's hand. "Come on. Someone is refusing proper medical care until he sees you."

She came into the room at a limping run, sliding to a stop when she saw two nurses and an intern struggling with a very disoriented and angry Danny. "What are you doing? He just came out of surgery!"

"He needs to stay in bed, miss. He keeps saying he's going to Montana. We've told him he's in Montana, but he isn't very lucid."

Lindsay couldn't help the snort of laughter that rose like a bubble in her. "Let me." She reached for Danny's hand and leaned forward to whisper in his ear, "Danny. It's Montana. Siete calmi. I'm here."

Instantly, he stopped trying to get up, sighed, and said with surprising clarity, "Where the hell ya' been, Montana?"

She hushed the others in the room and motioned them to leave. The older nurse threw her hands in the air and muttered, "If he's pulled out his stitches, I'm not using a local next time!" and ushered the two younger staff members out with her.

"I'm here now, Danny. I'm here." Carefully, she sat on the bed beside him, trying to avoid all the tubes and wires attached to him, monitoring his every breath and twitch.

"Where's here?" His voice was slurred now, but one hand held hers tight and the other reached up to cup her cheek, his thumb running over its smooth curve.

"Home, Danny. You and me, wherever we are. As long as we're together, we're home."

_**Fin**_

_-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-_

_A/N2: The characters in this story have amazing loving sex. They also have unprotected sex. Unless you are actually a fictional person, don't follow their example. Their risks are controlled by me. You have to control your own risks. Don't be a statistic._


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